


A Wolf in Chase

by oneinspats



Series: A Near Run Thing [2]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, French History RPF, Napoleonic Era RPF, Real Person Fiction, english history RPF
Genre: 2spoopy4u, Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, F/M, Ghosties, M/M, Magic, Mystery, Napoleonic Wars, No one is where they tech. were supposed to be but i don't care, Period Typical Violence, Regency, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:33:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 73,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/pseuds/oneinspats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Pale Before the Fall" though I don't think it's too much a necessity to have read the first one. </p><p>A continuation of something like a friendship. If one may be so liberal as to call it that. Mostly, there are mysteries and a bored (former) emperor who has nothing better to do than drag a certain duke along on his adventures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entrails are bearers of fortune. Or something.

Entrails. Made of what? Flesh. Blood. Water. Salt. Iron. The fibre of a being spilling out so it writhes, shakes, coils upon the ground — death dealing snakes that are grey-red twists and turns with lives of their own sucking your life away so you shuffle off this —

If your stomach is slit open, which _is_ a hard task for a knife must first go through fabric and there are layers of it aren’t there? There are because this is early fall, a late September month, and these past few years have been cold since at least 1816 which had been laughingly called the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Froze to Death. But it is that mad laughter. That desperate kind. Smile so you don’t shed tears. Watery tracks down face looking akin to salt ridden —

Entrails. Cutting through fabric — layers of it and it is a fine pretty red, too. This fabric. Then to the skin and the stomach is thick. Surprisingly so. Most think the belly soft but it is exhausting work to gut a man. The skin isn’t like the thin under your eyes or between your fingers, at the joint of your legs. No, it’s surprisingly difficult. But once done entrails spill out for the human body is amazing in how much _necessity_ it can contain along side all the _unnecessary._

 

A man, new upon an island, once dreamt of a stream and a wild boar being turned over. In the guts of the mad, dead pig was the face of a man he had never met. He woke, startled. Thought of his mother. Found a friend.

‘Bertrand,’ he said, pouring them both a glass of wine.

‘What is it?’

‘I had a dream that I never thought to have. There was a boar and I turned it over and I saw a man’s face.’

‘I know. I was standing behind you. I had the same dream.’

What are the Mazzeri? The man’s mother had once told him. Dark and terrible. Necessary, though. Alongside all the unnecessary things.

 

Blood is thought to be hot and wet. A sanguine humour. Then there are the others: choleric, melancholic, and phlegmatic. Even though we have reached the autumn of 1818 these things still apply. Important, though, is that blood has water in it. Mostly water, actually. And salt. And iron. Water is powerful. Iron is a means of control. Salt is a _necessity._ Let me show you the ways.

 

A man is walking into a new growth forest. He is young, fresh faced wearing a uniform and clearly is merely an ensign. The forest is no older than 1690, 1700 although the area and its marsh land, its clawing swampy earth, reeks of age. Of Romans and Celts and Danes and Anglos. The man’s grandfather might have helped to plant the trees in this forest. What is this man’s name? Ensign Thomas Linden. His name is beautifully poetic. Not even Keats could have done better. He is walking into a forest near the River Nene which scrapes its way through the village of Woodford. He is about to —

 

In London Dr. James Blundell completes the first successful blood transfusion with human blood. This has no bearing on anything except that it happened September twenty-third, 1818.

 

His Grace, Sir Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington meets with his friend the Right Honourable Charles Arbuthnot.

‘Look Arthur, come December there will be a cabinet opening. Master-General of the Ordnance. Now that Liverpool is securely ensconced in government. What say you?’

Arthur says he would be honoured. Harriet Arbuthnot sits upon the edge of her husband’s desk. She laughs, Honoured, Arthur? Can you not do better than that?

‘Thrilled? No, truly. I am. I would be.’

In the duke’s breast pocket, burying through to his skin is a letter. God above help him, he has never kept a secret from Harriet or Charles, but especially Harriet. Yet, the burning of his chest, the weight of a single leaf of paper, hurts. He cannot afford to lose his friends. He thinks that he will burn the letter when he returns home. Or, perhaps, cast it off a bridge into muddy Thames. Let the water take it.

Harriet claps her hands together, ‘shall we take a little holiday then? To the countryside? Perhaps in a month. Woodford is delightful in full autumnal glory and Arthur, dear, you have not seen it thus, have you?’

He owns that he has not.

 

Water runs through the Thames, under foot, sinking into rock and foundations and the formation of the city itself. England is an island surrounded by islands which, in turn, are surrounded by black Atlantic. Dark, Channel. Cold Northern Sea.

Log-book for the Woodford Sentinels reads that Mr. Thomas Linden has failed to show up for two shifts. The new task-master of the region, Sir Hudson Lowe, sends out a search party. Bring the blighter back and he will learn what it means to desert the British Army.

Once upon a time a man described the ocean as wine black. Blood black.

 

The letter in the Duke’s pocket is in French. Dirty French. He does not allow himself to adore it.

_Islands have long been my greatest curse yet they provide me my most formidable sense of self. Come visit. I feel there is something afoot._

 

 .   .   .

 .   .   .

 .   .


	2. Chapter 2

October brings cool weather. The leaves begin their slow and steady course to faded yellow, brown, sad orange. Summer coats are put aside as the wardrobe is graduated to heavier wools. Darker colours adorn women’s frocks and household staff begin to look to winter supplies.

In all cultures the turning of the tide of the year is important. A reminder of mortality, for some, a place-holder of change for others, a moment before rebirth. Snow, not yet dreamt of, will leave its softly felt mark on the sloping, loping land. It will freeze, hold, maintain the structure of tree, valley, hill until it thaws and forces ground to shift and make way for the inundation of water.

The former-emperor’s horse, Vizir, cannot keep still and skitters to the side with ill constrained impatience. Its rider looks back with a huff.

‘You must learn to keep up _Tonio._ ’

A young man atop an uncertain brown thoroughbred approaches in a halting manner. His uniform is askew and he is frantically holding onto his hat whilst trying to reign his mount in.

‘I’m sorry, general. I haven’t ridden recently and Monsieur Bertrand’s horse is not what I’m used to.’

'So I can see. You’ve been shirking your duties as a soldier. Come, you must at least learn to stay seated.’

‘The Duke says you’re a terrible rider, monsieur.’ Layton ducks his head as soon as the words come out. He coughs and continues to adjust his hat. Though, to the young man’s relief, Napoleon laughs. Where Layton inherited his inability to keep ill-timed comments behind his teeth he is not sure but generally blames it on his mother’s American ancestry.

‘Does he? How ungentlemanly of him. Well, we will go along the Nene until Great Addington then circle back. You shouldn’t be too out of sorts tomorrow.’

‘Will you ride again, monsieur?’

‘Perhaps.’ A sly smile. ‘The horses need attention and the weather has been unkind in that regard. But I might take pity on you.’

Layton groaned, No monsieur. Or, if you do, do not say as much. I am teased for my horsemanship enough as it is. And you are kind; Sir Hudson Lowe has been on my case lately. He says that I am too friendly with enemy combatants.

'I’m an honoured guest. Not an enemy combatant. Well, not any more.’

They pass along to a smooth trail and Napoleon slows his gate to his shadow’s great relief.

‘Lord Lowe believes you to be in contact with restless subjects in France.’

‘What a fanciful imagination that man has.’

‘He believes you will try to flee, like on Elba.’

Layton finds the general’s countenance inscrutable. That infamous sliver of a smile, eyes that, at the moment, are neither here nor there in expression and colour. The lieutenant’s grandmother would call it a fairy-court stare. Lead a man to wrack and ruin with it. Layton knows himself to be hardly immune, despite his love of his country. There is more pride and pleasure in making England’s honoured guest happy than in pleasing his unofficial jailor Lord Lowe.

‘I should tell you, monsieur. Or, perhaps not.’

Napoleon smiles then says, No, you probably shouldn’t if you think it might compromise your loyalties. Layton sighs.

‘Lord Lowe,’ he glances about. ‘He is lobbying to have your movements restricted. He wants it so you cannot be further than a mile from your house. He wants it, too, that you always have someone following you instead of the two hours morning and night as it is now.’

The change is quick. The emperor-general scowls, a few clouds gather in front of the sun in time with the shifting mood. It ought to be a work of Shelley or Byron, Layton thinks. Only, I don’t think they would believe it if they witnessed it.

‘Of course,’ Napoleon sneers. ‘Of course such a _little_ man would think in such a petty way. His mind is claustrophobic. He is paranoid of his own shadow. Some men are born to shameful tasks I will own, but it ought not mean you should be a shameful man.’ A pause. A short, sharp laugh. He adds, ‘His grace would agree with me.’

Layton nods, oh yes, I think he would. His grace is a big man in all things. He tells the general that his grace is coming to Woodford, you know. With the Arbuthnots but not Lady Katherine because of something to do with _marital relations needing space._

Oh yes, Napoleon’s sudden smile says. I know. The clouds begin to clear and again it is a crisp, autumn sun that Layton so loves.

‘When are they to arrive?’

Layton thinks, You already know you sly bastard. But he enjoys too much how the emperor (former) gets away with under Lowe’s nose so tolerates the conversation.

‘Thursday next, I believe. My Susie’s aunt’s cousin works at the Hall and has told Susie’s aunt that they expect them to remain for a month or so at least.’

‘Will they stay for Christmas?’

The river begins to widen as they come towards Kinewell lake and its brothers. Layton can hear the mill in the distance and soon they are bracketed by water on either side. The ground underfoot becomes sodden.

‘Staff thinks not. Mr. A. will be needed in London – it’s a shock that they are coming up in October anyhow what with Liverpool’s recent victory and Mr. A being in the cabinet. Though, I hear that his grace is inline for a cabinet position himself as well. December, I hear, or so my father writes me.’

‘What good fortune for him. We’ll rest here a moment before making the circle.’

Layton throws stones into the river. He wonders what is must be like to be what? Friends? Acquaintances? With the man who has caused your ruin and your family’s ruin. To be a falling star alongside a rising one. The thought palls. He changes track and thinks about his Susie instead.

 

 

In the distance there are the sounds of the mill but above that birds and the occasional shot of local hunters. Through a small copse of trees runs a wild boar. Strange, for this area of land. Something follows it. Something hunts it. The boar’s eyes are mad with terror. In its belly are entrails which contain a face of someone who is to die.

Does this knowledge only activate the _act_ itself when the boar is killed? Does _knowing_ cause the deed to happen? If the boar lived and was not killed, turned upon its back, the face witnessed – would that person have lived?

On Corsica a man, a dream hunter, one of the _mazzeri_ , shoots two hares. When his grandsons die he tells his sons, I am sorry for it is my fault your boys have perished.

This implies causation.

The boar runs.

 

 

For Napoleon it has been four, five months since he has seen Arthur Wellesley. They had exchanged the odd, secretive letter in the interim, smuggled between village and town by a circuitous route but no more. Arthur had written of London’s teeming masses, his fury with long-suffering Kitty, the weather. Nothing much, really. Except the letters were in the duke’s hand and so that was something, at least. Napoleon had replied with meditations upon rural living, bee keeping, the latest gossip from Albine and Charles. Nothing much, as well. But they too were written in the former-emperor’s hand and so that was something, at least.

Currently, with the river in front of him, he remembers their walks. They had many of them, whenever the weather had allowed for it. He also remembers, fleetingly, what it was like attempting to fit limbs around each other in a bed too small for two full-grown men. Arms could not find a place to be. They had laughed about it, sort of. As much as either could allow themselves the pleasure of one another’s friendship and easy company. It had been simultaneously easier and more difficult than it ought to have been.

When they parted last, a cold, grey May day, Arthur had said, I’ll let you know when we’ve arrived safely in London. And with the disruption of the machine breakers and general unrest, even if it was mostly in the north, this was something like a comfort or a promise or a what? He isn’t actually sure though he will never admit it.

Mostly, it provided a means of replying. Napoleon plays on the duke’s good manners and always asks questions, whether out of actual interest or merely as a means of securing a response is uncertain. But now the duke is to come again to Woodford, which is something the emperor wants, even asked for, but now he is not so certain.

Lord Lowe will commandeer the duke’s time, as will the Arbuthnot’s and the Phillip’s and Topsom’s and the other principle families of the area. Most likely, he thinks, we will see very little of him and that is well.

A stone splashes in the river, jarring thoughts. He watches as Layton tosses another one into a cool, still pool to the side of the river. Come, he says when Layton pitches his last stone to hand, let us ride on or else we will never be back in time for your daily grilling by Lord Lowe.

Layton makes a face, mounts his horses, and wishes to God that Lord Lowe had never come into his life to make it such a misery. Though, he owns, at least he isn’t my jailor. Merely my commander.

 

 

Mrs. Topsom is the first to call when the Arbuthnot’s arrive. She waits the required few days then marches over with jam and clippings for Harriet’s garden.

‘We hear you are to completely renovate the hall.’ Topsom says over her tea. They are all in the morning room which has a fine view out to the gardens. Charles, ever enthusiastic, pulls out the plans to show her.

‘We are to expand, you see here. The position of the house as it stands is perfect but we think a modernization is in order. A wing, perhaps. Certainly the gardens will need to be redone.’

‘And thank you for the clippings! I remember admiring your gardens years ago, when we first married.’

Mrs. Topsom beams at the two of them. A servant arrives with plates of fruit and more tea. A famous writer once noted that if not everyone can speak, all can certainly eat and the small party took to the plates with gusto. Arthur wondered at Mrs. Topsom staying for more than fifteen minutes but then reasoned that country rules must necessarily be different from city rules and clearly he had been out of England too long if he is finding all of this shocking.

‘Of course, you must call on Lord Lowe,’ Mrs. Topsom says between bites. ‘He is our latest addition to the small village. Lives up at Abelle Hall, now that poor Sir George has gone away. He’s renting it though I would not be surprised if Sir George sold the manor what with all the memories of his wife.’

Harriet exclaims, ‘he can’t! That’s Georgiana’s home. It’s been in the family for generations. He mustn’t sell. I’ll write him directly on the matter. Arthur,’ she smiles her brilliant smile which tells the duke that something is afoot. ‘Perhaps you can rent it if Lord Lowe finds it not to his liking.’

Arthur thinks this a terrible plan. He indicates as much. All three laugh at his stupidity and inform him that it would be much superior to have him at Abelle renting than Lord Lowe.

‘He’s dreadful,’ Mrs. Topsom informs them. ‘He’s dug up Lady Georgiana’s garden and installed a sentinel system so he can keep constant watch on the roads to and from Woodford. There are officers and soldiers everywhere, now. Two are billeted next door to me and they are up and down at all hours of the night. You would think that if Bonaparte wanted to escape he would have done it before now. It’s been three years after all. Though, it’s not like Lord Lowe can keep his men. They keep running off, you know.’

Arthur, for something to say, makes the useful comment: ‘Desertion has always been a problem in our army.’

‘Oh yes,’ Mrs. Topsom agrees. ‘My Reggie said as much when he was enlisted. I can hardly blame the lads being so close to home and having Lord Lowe as commander. Really, it’s no wonder.’

After she leaves Harriet leans against the doorframe to the room and sighs. Really, she mimics, it’s no wonder everyone wants to shoo her out after ten minutes. How did she manage to stay for half an hour?

Charles settles into his chair with a gazette from London, only a day old and informs Harriet that the Topsoms have long been a mystery to the Arbuthnots. No one much likes them yet they some how know everyone’s business. I’m going to read, he looks at Arthur and Harriet, both of you make yourselves scarce.

 

           

Space can be defined in absolutes. It can be defined in positives just as well as negatives. It can be defined in indefinites. Space finds definition in trajectory — movement of beings, of time, of physical space itself along a notion of time which can be an arrow or a conch shell or a spiral or a myriad mess of understanding towards the inescapable something which to those in this story would consider and understand as _future._

Naturally, the notion of _future_ is that of a threshold. It is a _before,_ a _cusp,_ an understanding of _between_ that is currently between, has been between, and just coming into its between-ness. The future cannot exist beyond an abstraction of present and present exists through the slaughter of the past and all of this happens _to_ people or, maybe better, happens because people must construct meaning out of all of this ness-ness and the best way to do it is through narrative and story and the notion of past, whatever that is, and present, and the intangible never reaching-it future. Regardless, it all happens and people are involved and it is all _in, on, with_ a space.

Space can be confining. This is possibly the most basic understanding of physicality of the world around us. Confinement. Even if it is the open ocean with the rippling, forever sky there remains confinement. A maddening notion. In a house it becomes apparent with all of the walls and doors and windows and roofs and floors beneath which is the earth, compact and real. Beneath that? Water. Salt. Iron. A means of control.

If you try to leave, to escape, you run out to the confinement of gardens and meadows and rivers and sky. It constricts a person, binds their chest so it feels as if they cannot breath and the air around them becomes abrasive. Even working feels claustrophobic. Productivity merely another means of defining something that needs definition. Then, of course, there are _other people._

Currently Napoleon is escaping Layton’s steady surveillance and takes Vizir for yet another gallop along an abandoned field. The horse, possibly more than his master, needs the escape. Ahead of them is a small wooded area where locals are allowed to poach on certain days in a rule that is left over from before the dissolution of the monasteries. He is aiming for it. In his mind he is remembering Corsica.

  

 

A letter. Dated October 3rd, 1818.

“Monsieur,       

Since you have decided in your last letter, dated 27 September, that we ought to dispense with formalities and be merely _monsieurs_ to each other. I cannot find myself disagreeing with this decision and so I will allow you this minor imperial ruling even if you are still general. I hear all letters to you must still maintain your former titles. I hope this gets through despite that rather — what shall I call it? Hubristic? Decision.

You say you want me to come to you and that something is occurring of a mysterious nature (my addition of “mysterious”) but provide no details beyond your obscure comment re: islands. You did not lie, monsieur, you are a terrible correspondent. I shall endeavor, then, to carry more of the weight.

Harriet, Charles, and I will be in Woodford by early October. Possibly this will reach you just as we arrive. H. decided that C. needed a break from London and that I should come along as well for a holiday. Kitty remains in town. I can see your face as I write those words. I beg you sir, as you are a gentleman of sorts, do say nothing of K. to me. H. and C. are the only ones I need regarding anything that might do with K.

I look forward to hearing how you progress with your English. Bertrand writes me upon occasion and has mentioned it. I believe he is warming up to me. Montholon writes regularly for news about the continent and while he is the more engaging and diverting writer I believe Bertrand’s carry more sense. Burn this letter directly you read it for I shan’t have Bertrand finding out that I have complimented him. It will ruin our (entirely one-sided) casual dislike of each other. That I like you, in a manner of speaking, is disaster enough so I must maintain some disdain within the French party for the sake of my reputation at the very least. You could also not refer to me as a friend. That would help.

For your English lessons, I will speak to you only in English when I arrive. This way I will reign complete control over our conversations and you will have impeccable grammar by the end of my stay. I recommend mastering verbs and basic vocabulary first. There are four or five verbs we use most in English, find a list and have those memorized. Sadly for all French speakers we are not as heavily reliant on our articles and have nothing, whatsoever, to do with gendered nouns. We also lack a _vous/tu_ distinction. That is to say, we shall _tutoyer_ each other one day, perhaps, but it shall only be in your language. I own that my language is a damn’d one to learn and although I profess a partiality to it I cannot claim to envy you your task.

A few weeks ago I read a poem and thought of you. Not the normal thing I go for, I grant, but these things do occur. The lines that struck me were as follows:

“Nothing beside remains. Round the decay  
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare  
The lone and level sands stretch far away”

That is to say, I was remembering a story you told me one night back in May when we were living in our Gothic Novel. You told me of ruins upon Corsica that you still think much of which I’ve taken to mean that they haunt you the way Russia and Bautzen might haunt you on occasion. We have not known each other long and our correspondence is fragmented at best, but I cannot help but feel an affiliation. Aside from the other happenings of May, best we not speak of them, I do sympathize with your plight despite, or in-spite of, it all. I ought not to have written that. I apologize, I will see you in a matter of weeks — we arrive 8 October. Do not reply to this, I will see you before then.

 

            Yours &tc.

            Arthur Wellesley 

Usual protocol. Could you imagine the brouhaha should someone find this letter? Or any of our letters? I shudder to think on it. Disgraceful.

Another version of the poem above, but this one by Smith instead of Shelley:

“We wonder,—and some Hunter may express  
Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness  
Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chase,  
He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess  
What powerful but unrecorded race  
Once dwelt in that annihilated place”"

 

 

Leaving Vizir to graze the general finds a perch upon a fallen log, pockets the letter, and contemplates the tree-ridden skyline. Corsica is a land he thinks of more often than he would ever care to admit. When there is wind upon his face, it is Corsica; when he hears the hypnotic movement of water, it is Corsica; when he feels dry dirt underfoot, Corsica; sees sheer granite cliffs, Corsica; when he smells fish and fowl in the market, Corsica; women washing clothes in River Nene is Corsica; rain reminds him of finding skulls in riverbeds in Corsica; goats and sheep remind him of shepherds and lazy summer days remind him of the cool of his family’s home in Corsica; little Hortense Bertrand in her new green frock playing with her brother’s kite is Corsica; Arthur asking, in a scoffing, disbelieving manner, for tales is Corsica. The duke secretly sent him a crate of oranges in June along with sketch he had found in London of Ajaccio’s port. Napoleon spent the remainder of the day with Cipriani, his valet, speaking only Corsicani and drinking wine to the annoyance of everyone around him.

 

His mother had once told him, Identity can be multi-faceted. Seemingly duplicitous, to those outside of oneself. And these identities are forged around both the obvious and the seemingly banal and unimportant. No identity truly leaves a person when you adopt a new one. Rather, it hides beneath your skin. Borrows deep into the core of your bones and reemerges when death is nigh so all you are is your native language, native faith. Crown yourself emperor of France, my son, but remember always that you were born Nabulione. A Corsican who has left Corsica. What does that make you?

He had laughed at the time. Now, he sits on a damp log thinking in Corsicani with a letter in hand written in French by an English general. And of course he remembers when he hadn’t felt French. When he had been translating in his mind between French and Corsican and Italian and Latin and then they had tried to teach him German and it had been too many words. An Englishman once wrote, _words, words, words._ And this is something Napoleon thinks he can understand. What is it now? French, mostly, with smatterings of Corsican and Italian and the latest intruder being English. He hates English grammar and English pronunciation. He cannot wrap his mouth around their infernal butchering of vowels and how a word may look the same but can be pronounced in three different ways and all three ways mean different things. How the spelling can change between words, and meaning and use, but the pronunciation remains the same. He hates the French intruders in the English language, the way they seem so similar yet so different. He hates the lack of _vous_ and _tu_ and _on_ and although he is a man who respects ambiguity and obscurity in speech the English take it to a level that ought not to be comprehensible or allowable. Sometimes, he feels a little like he is drowning but then he tells himself not to and the waves recede.

 

But this is all bleeding together, his past when he had wanted a free Corsica with his past when he had been a servant of the Revolution with his past when he had been emperor of the Revolution and all the identities and senses of self become difficult to parse so in the end he is some hybrid of imperial creation thinking that the log he is sitting on is a bit wet and cold. Such is life, he tells himself. 

When he told Arthur of the monoliths that darkened the more mysterious parts of his beautiful Mediterranean island they had been lying in bed. It was three days after the Georgiana Incident, or “Our Personal Gothic Novel” as the duke referred to it as, and they had been attempting to make heads and tales. Namely, when do you stop trusting your eyes and look to reason and logic alone for solutions. Napoleon had said, for the sake of dramatics, ‘I could tell that the people who had built them had once been great. Now we have merely their shattered remains.’

Arthur had replied with a tale of a fisher-king, if perhaps distastefully. Afterwards they dressed, played billiards until the early hours of the morning then disappeared into the forest to nap beneath oak trees.

  
 .   .   .

 .   .   .

 .   .


	3. Chapter 3

The meeting must occur. Of course it must. Arthur maintains ambiguity about it but when Harriet declares over breakfast that they should call on the French for they have been here in Woodford for four days and it is only right and proper the ambiguity begins to give out.

Post-breakfast he repairs to the library for a quiet think and a moment to look over the half-hazard gardens which are Harriet’s great nemesis. She tells him she wants roses but they cannot take to the soil. She gives up on them. Then she thinks maybe petunias but they only want to grow in a single corner but nowhere else. Perhaps geraniums, her groundskeeper suggests. Fine, they try them, they only want to grow by the front gates but she already wants stately elms there so it cannot do. The garden lingers unfinished but there is a charm to it. The old ash by the back garden gate is where he had seen a ghostly figure. A woman in black, or perhaps grey, many months ago.

What do you do when you find experiences thwarting the foundations of your understanding of the world and yourself? Struggle to breath, mostly. In Arthur’s case he ignores them. Pushes it all away. He and Harriet have not spoken of Georgiana since May. They have not spoken of anything that happened here during those dreary weeks. And he and the emperor? Only in passing. In drips and drabs on paper. Only as a point of “we should not mention it” because it terrifies him, if he is honest. Magic. He laughs. It’s farcical. He thinks, I did not fight in India and Spain and Portugal and France to come home and succumb to superstitions. Magic is for children and we have long ago put all childish things aside.

But still, it rubs.

‘What are you thinking of?’ Harriet stands in the doorway. The early sun tangles through the windows, drowns the floor, looses itself in her dress, eyes, hair. Arthur knows that had he not been married to Kitty and had Harriet not been married to Charles — but that is yet another thing best not spoken of. They are friends and it is good.

‘May.’

‘It was dreadful.’

‘I don’t think I said how sorry I am about it.’ He moves towards her, she faults to the left and sits herself at Charles’ desk. Standing awkwardly he takes a chair and moves it towards her. ‘We looked for her. We tried.’

‘I know you did.’

'And it not ought to have happened the way it did.’

She smiles. Of course, she agrees. Of course but you can say that about everything in life. It not ought to have happened the way it did. But it did happen that way.

‘Arthur,’ she says it suddenly, takes his hand. ‘I know Charles will want to call on Sir Hudson Lowe but I do not think I can go to that house or to Dr. Phillip’s. Or, rather, I know I could if I had to but I do not feel right about it.’ His hand is set back down and she recedes into the chair. ‘I will engineer an excuse.’

‘Does he know anything?’

She shakes her head.

‘He saw us as we were after it all. When he arrived the pieces had yet to be picked up. Perhaps we should tell him. He would understand.’

‘He would and he wouldn’t. He would try but he wouldn’t. I don’t think anyone who wasn’t here could understand. _I_ don’t understand and I was here. When I think back on it, it feels a dream to me. As if I made it up. For a memory only a matter of months old it feels more ancient. Do you know childhood memories? How they sort of fray and fade about the edges? That is how I feel about Georgiana. And Arthur, Arthur I am so afraid that I might forget her. That I might not remember _her_ but rather what she became and I desperately do not want that.’

She knows he has no words of comfort. She appreciates the air of sympathy he exudes, though, and allows herself a moment before she gathers herself. Standing, she says that they best be off or else they will never make it over.

 

At _le Petit Versailles_ the French are outside. Albine spots the arrivals first and flows over to them. It has been too long, she says, kissing Harriet and allowing Arthur to bow over her hand. And this must be your charming husband of whom we have heard so much about, she smiles at Charles. Come, the others have spoken only of you since your arrival and _himself_ is in denial of his impatience. Best put him out of his misery.

There is a table laid with tea and treats and once greetings have been completed they settle down. Hudson Lowe is the topic of conversation and Charles says he is impatient to meet the local legend.

‘I enjoy a ridiculous person as much as the next and I think he’ll be prime material.’ He explains. This is enough encouragement and soon Arthur is imagining Lowe in all exaggerated detail — hang dog look, spotty, ill tempered, hunched, and with no hair. Or perhaps a very little, but it clings to the side of his as if it is sliding off a mountain. Montholon provides an impression to an easily pleased audience and he is followed by little Hortense Bertrand who sports a pretty green frock. She pretends to be the dreaded Lord Lowe on horseback. During this the emperor makes himself scarce.

‘He’s been in a mood for a week now,’ Albine complains once the absence is noted. ‘The usual ineffective restlessness compounded by Lowe’s latest attempts to hem in his movements. The emperor submits to nothing, let alone riding constraints.’

Fanny hisses, _Enough._ Albine smiles back — cold, snake-like.

Charles meanders down the middle of the road believing that Bonaparte ought to be treated as a gentleman, after all he did seek asylum here in England against the inevitable early demise that would have happened had the Prussians gotten their way, yet — and always yet with Charles — he understands the point of view of the jailor, too. Napoleon has escaped before.

The French know this. The thickness in the air speaks of it. Arthur knows more than just his letters slip through the intensive security in place. There are rumours of messages and packages from Austria, from the Italian peninsula, even from America.

In a letter Montholon had recounted how the Emperor had stood in front of enemy soldiers who had once been his own and had, with arms wide as a Christ on a forlorn road, asked them to shoot him. They hadn’t, of course. ‘My father told me of the fae,’ Montholon wrote. ‘I was a boy at the time and he told me of how they have glamour which they can turn off and on at will. They can make you love them, make you think them beautiful and charming and you find yourself willing to run off a cliff in full battle array merely because they ask it of you.’ Arthur now thinks Montholon had been trying to tell him something about exile and empire and greed and love and fear. It muddles together, becomes murky. Lingers, unclear, in his mind.

Arthur stands, sets his tea down. ‘I’m going for a stroll,’ he says to no one in particular, perhaps Albine since she is closest to him, but most likely not. Harriet shrugs helplessly but Arthur is already disappeared into the garden and paying little mind.

‘It’s all right,’ Bertrand says. ‘We do not stand on formality with friends.’

 

‘You’ve yet to meet the toad?’ The former emperor asks as Arthur approaches.

‘Lord Lowe?’

‘The same.’

‘No, though I now have high expectations. He’s due to call on us at some point soon. Or perhaps we ought to call on him since he is new to the neighbourhood.’

Napoleon makes a noise and moves to his roses. One or two linger on past the heat of the summer. Their petals brown, faded, curling in on themselves. He breaks them off and lets them fall to the ground. Soon it will be time for burlap at night to keep them from freezing but that time is not quite yet. Days are cool and nights cooler but it remains early autumn yet.

When in full bloom the garden feels overwhelming. For the spring and summer is all lilacs and geraniums and lilies and roses so there are eternal perfumes in the air, one after the other, recalling emotion, making man touch the intangible if only for a moment.

 

Josephine had been called Rose before she was ever Josephine.

           

‘I hear I am to congratulate you.’

Arthur frowns, Sir? What do you mean? Oh, yes, Master-General of the Ordnance. Not yet.

‘December?’

‘You have a good source of information. Did you get my letter?’

‘The one with the poetry?’

‘Oh,’ Arthur makes a face. ‘Yes. That one. I believe you had best forget it. It was written when I was in an ill temper.’

The smile, the one Arthur hates with a vengeance but cannot help but want to see, appears. ‘Too late, Wellesley. My memory is infamous. But it is no longer in existence if that is any consolation. And I did not think it too terrible.’

That, Arthur says, is good. But truly we ought to return to the others.

It is the emperor’s turn to make a face. The duke snorts, takes his arm, and steers him towards the house amidst complaints of manhandling and how his grace is being quite unfair and that Napoleon is _sure_ that this is ungentlemanly behaviour.

           

The nature of the emperor is not one that is easy in any regard. Not easy to describe, not easy to endure, not easy to be without once removed from it. Five months apart, even after such a brief time as their first encounter was, and Arthur is finding the ground he treads upon as uneasy as the ground when they first met. He sits, listening to Harriet’s stories of the Season, the election, the unrest, but knows, as he does so, that he is being watched. Napoleon of course is looking at Harriet but Arthur knows better – blast the infernal man.

The visit ends with an invitation to the eternal exiles for dinner at the week’s end. Arthur feels the tug before he stands. He feels it as his body pushes itself away from the chair and the tea and the half eaten biscuit. He turns, about to say ‘excuse me’ when Harriet laughs.

‘Of course you’re staying. I figured you would. We will see you later.’

The Arbuthnot’s depart and it feels akin to May but it ought not to so he turns, Shall we go for a ride? From the shadows comes a groan of, Oh no, not another one.

‘No,’ Napoleon shoos Layton off. ‘You do not have to come. I believe his grace will suffice for a chaperone so I do not run off to France and make havoc.’

Layton lingers in the hall, uncertain, until Arthur tells him that he will vouch for the lad should Lowe choose to take issue. This is enough and Layton scampers off with little grace but much enthusiasm.

‘He’s fine,’ Napoleon says as they follow the well worn river path. ‘But I think he’d much rather be sighing over his girl than following me around.’

‘How insulting.’

‘How are you?’

Arthur doesn’t answer. Instead he looks to the water. It has a pleasant cool, clear aspect to it before it swirls off into deeper, darker dens of underground roadways only it can traverse. On a summer day he’d insist on stopping and putting his feet in.

‘Can you swim?’ He asks the emperor as they turn from the river towards the forest.

A raised eyebrow. ‘I can. I hope you’re not planning on throwing me in, though.’

‘No. Ha! Though to see your face.’

‘You wouldn’t _dare_.’

‘Monsieur, banish the thought!’ At this moment Vizir skitters forward, Napoleon glares over his shoulder as Arthur grins. The emperor’s eyes widen.

‘No!’

But Arthur presses forward with a sharp laugh and they are cantering for the tree line. Napoleon’s main aim being that if he is to be unceremoniously pulled from his horse it will not be into a cold river. Arthur’s aim is less clear, mainly he finds he likes turning the table of trickster on Europe’s greatest master of the art.

 

 

Can Harriet explain? She pushes the thought from her head. It was months ago and she is not sure she can remember the details as Charles would be sure to ask for them.

The days had been grey with fog and rain and thin mist. That is how her memory feels — a veil of thin mist shrouding the past so it is less important and the _now_ is everything that is beautiful and cool and crisp and clear.

She and Charles pass through the village green in a companionable silence. She, picking at the mist of memories. He, sensing her silence and knowing that he will eventually be informed of the matter. He had wondered about May, of course, for when he and Richard had arrived two weeks later than they had anticipated he had found everything at odds. The odds where everyone is being friendly and polite but it is only to continue the effort of hiding something. They had left shortly thereafter. Harriet morose, Kitty suffering from nerves, and Arthur seemingly neither here nor there and perhaps even a bit wistful. Since then he had asked after Georgiana. The most recent had been on the night of their arrival but Harriet only shrugged and whispered into his shoulder, I hardly know. This, he thinks, is the closest to the truth that I have gotten out of any of them.

Scandal in London since the “I hardly know” event had been avoided thus far which Harriet takes as a minor blessing from God Himself. But really, she knows, it is only a matter of time.

By the edge of the green men are gathering with axes and rope beside a cart. Charles steers them towards the group. Amongst the small crowd are familiar faces — Dr. Phillips looking perhaps a little wan and thin, Mrs. Topsom with a bonny hat over her grey hair, and young Ltn. Layton Humphrey accompanied by a few of his compatriots and brunette girl who Harriet assumes can only be Susie. In Layton’s hair is a bit of straw. By the hem of Susie’s frock, the same.

Harriet slides herself next to Mrs. Topsom.

‘The men are gathering about Old Man Oak,’ the widow explains.

‘Old Man Oak?’

No reply. Among the main group there is a consensus and they move off towards the forest. The cart of axes pushed and pulled by those as able. Spectators follow, some even with picnic baskets. In the back of the group someone strikes up on a fiddle. Charles finds Harriet in good spirits. Kissing his cheek she murmurs, _Of course_ the felling of a tree is cause for communal excitement.

‘Is that what this is about?’

‘I can only assume. Unless we’re about to be part of an anti-Lowe mutiny.’

 

 

It turns out that Napoleon has a bag of cherries with him, discovered once he is out paced by Arthur who then finds himself being pelted in the head from behind. This entire endeavor is of great amusement to the emperor-general.

Napoleon explains, There was a girl when I was very young who I courted for a spell. As I had no money to do anything formal we would spend our days walking by a river and eating cherries. I couldn’t afford anything more extravagant for her.

‘Well I consider it quite extravagant.’

‘I’m flattered, though I take issue with your choice of past interests if that is the case. Though, I suppose they were all ladies so circumstances are different.’

‘No, no I was merely speaking to the fact that you have cherries in October.’

The emperor grins, pleased with himself, and pulls Arthur to the ground. The forest is still but for birds and their horses. Arthur thinks that the hunting must be excellent in these parts and that he should insist on going out with Charles at some point. Also, he muses, the quest for truffles. From his limited knowledge it seems to be the right environment.

‘Strange to think that Georgiana could still be in these woods,’ he says as a cherry is handed to him.

‘Well, if she was we would have found her living wild by now. Enough people use these woods after all.’

Arthur nods, pulls one of Napoleon’s hands over, tugs the glove off, turns it palm up and traces the lines therein. The lines are etched in, grooves through something as simple as flesh indicating a notion of individuality and fate. The life line, or the one he thinks might be the life line, is broken where a path diverges.

‘Can you read them?’ Napoleon asks.

‘No. Can you?’

‘Once, I would have said yes but now, no.’

By the emperor’s foot is a fairy circle half covered in leaves. The caps are dry, their edges folding upwards. The emperor’s hair appears a softer brown than usual although still just as unable to lie flat. Arthur understands why some might think the hue reddish. His eyes are grey, at the moment, but a very grey. Sea grey. Atlantic grey. The line between ocean and sky in India before a storm.

To alleviate the situation Napoleon kisses him.

It is a shock and a comfort all at once. Arthur tells himself he should not be surprised. He thinks maybe they should spend time speaking of the past few months since it has been a time since they saw each other. But the tug is there. The one that sits between Arthur’s ribs, below bone and cartilage, compressing the diaphragm. Makes it difficult to breath.

He kisses back, to continue to alleviate the situation and his own thoughts which ought to make themselves scarce at this particular moment. The cherries are pushed to the side as the emperor is tugged into his lap and Arthur wraps an arm around his shoulders but then loses balance and falls sideways against the tree.

Napoleon, now straddling him, smirks.

‘I appear to have the advantage,’ he says, tugging at Arthur’s riding coat. Suddenly, to the duke, everything feels very heavy and warm despite their being outside. It might, he reasons, have something to do with the palm of Napoleon’s hand rubbing between his thighs.

‘I believe this is what they term a tactical retreat,’ Arthur hisses, hips moving upwards. ‘There is such a thing as mutual defeat.’

‘Or victory. Either way, I take your point.’

Buttons are undone. Napoleon with the advantage of position waits as Arthur grumbles, I swear yours are made differently.

‘They are not.’

‘They’re French.’

‘They’re from London, unfortunately.’

Then the smile. The little one Arthur hates and loves. Napoleon leans over him, pressing their mouths together. He shifts as Arthur works their breeches lower. With foreheads touching and lips occasionally meeting they rub against each other. Arthur maneuvers a hand between them, wraps it around their pricks. It’s an awkward angle but tight so it works. Breathing speeds up, there are occasional gasps, someone moans something about wanting more. Oh God, Arthur finds himself half distracted by the thought of _more._ Of bending the other man over his desk and pounding into him so there are bruises and sweat and their bodies only know each other and _fuck._ The movement above him is intoxicating, the mouth that is either on his or is pressed against his far too clothed neck muffling moans. The sheer eagerness, the sheer wantonness, is almost juvenile. Arthur wants more. He lets himself admit that. A gasp, _fuck_ in Corsicani. Their movements speed up. The world becomes very small. It’s a language against his ear that he cannot fully understand. It’s round shoulders hidden beneath midnight blue wool. It’s the feeling of sudden relief, of cool air, blue sky, earth beneath fingertips.

 

The moment is frozen. Arthur can see leaves, fading yet still clinging to branches and behind them the firm earthliness of trees and behind them even further is the sky. How different, he thinks. How different from the times before. A leaf hits him in the face. He turns to the man beside him with a cross look.

‘I was being meditative.’ He declares.

‘I know.’

It’s the grey eyes that make the tug worse, Arthur thinks. They are also the reason none of his portraits are correct for who can capture those eyes and the extreme mobility of his face? On canvas, no less. He thinks about informing the former emperor of his revelation but decides against it.

Napoleon sits up, dusts off stray debris from his coat. He looks over to Arthur and says, There is a twig in your hair.

‘Say it in English.’

A briefly mortified look.

‘Go on, you shan’t learn unless you practice.’

The look turns haughty.

‘I will learn in my own time.’

Arthur snorts then supplies the English for “twig”. Napoleon sighs, Fine since I am to be persecuted if I do not. He gathers his thoughts and tries the sentence — there ees a … tweeg? On your ‘air?

‘In your hair.’

Napoleon scoffs, ‘in, on you understand, yes? Then what is the matter?’ A pause. ‘You know what I hate about English?’

Arthur says that he is willing to be enlightened on the matter.

‘That your word “thing” has only one syllable. Do you know how much pleasure I derive from answering impertinent questions about what I am doing, usually asked by the likes of Talleyrand, with a steady _quelque chose_ enunciated very slowly and with keen emphasis on the syllabic separations. Nothing quite says “piss off” like quel-que-chose.’

The situation is pondered as the duke removes the offending twig from his hair.

‘You could always make it plural elongate the ‘s’ and the end of “things”.’

‘Not the same. Yet another reason French is superior to English.’

‘Now you’re taking the piss.’

‘I would never, how do you say, “taek le pees”.’

Laughing Arthur heaves himself up into a sitting position. Course not, he mutters, reclaiming the bag of cherries from French territory. Now, he thinks, the man’s eyes are a pale grey. Grey of the early morning sky or the steel of a polished blade. God. God. Have I mentioned his _eyes?_

Another leaf is tossed at him.

He tosses it back. It flutters between them, landing on the emperor’s boot. In moments like this Arthur can see why some have commented on the emperor’s demeanor as that of a student rather than a soldier. In turns meditative, playful, amused, melancholic. Annoyed, he leans forward and kisses the dratted man. That this could ruin his political aspirations is a thought never far from his mind but he cannot allow it to occupy much space. Even if he did he knows that he would never obey such calm rational. This frustrates him, as well as Napoleon’s apparent ease with everything. Of course, once you’ve lost an empire what else is there left to lose, really?

They part, shyly.

Some things are not meant to happen. Some things felt are best kept confined to acceptable relations. One may kiss one’s mistress simply because her presence pleases you and she is sitting so pretty and you have no other motive than just a desire to kiss her. That is all. It strikes Arthur as too intimate for _this._ For them.

In the distance he can hear voices. Possibly even music — a fiddle if he not mistaken. Laughter, certainly. It is a relief. Napoleon stands and offers his hand which Arthur accepts. Their clothing is fixed, brushed off, hair neatened and completely de-leafed and de-twigged. Leading their horses they walk along towards the voices and what is becoming a clear rhythmic chopping noise.

Emerging from the forest the sun feels closer, warmer. Arthur notices for the first time that his skin is cold, feels damp beneath wool, even down to the bone.

‘Perhaps we should relegate further forest floor inspections to the indoors. I believe we’ve missed the outdoors window of opportunity.’ He murmurs. Napoleon snorts, inclines his head. Sure, but then it will be more difficult to tease and where would I be then?

‘I trust that you will find a means to persevere.’

 

 

Old Man Oak is one of the few remaining trees since the before the planting of the new growth forest. It had stood at the time of the Civil War, Henry VIII and even before that to Richard the Lionhearted local legend claims. Napoleon stares at the tree as it groans as men pull at the ropes aiding with the effort to bring it down. To him it is old, yes, but surely not Richard the Lionhearted old. He had seen a tree that had apparently stood since Charlemagne. It had been gnarled, curled over, knotted in on itself. Nothing like this tree which is old, sure, but not _old._

The axes work faster, burying themselves into the flesh and then back out. Young men tug on the ropes, use their body weight and swing, attempting to bring the tree down.

Arthur makes his way through the crowd, Napoleon following until he notices Harriet and Charles. They wave to each other then attention back to the trunk and the flayed bark.

The sound changes the deeper they dig into the tree. It becomes softer, the shards of trunk are dark, wet, molding. Napoleon picks up a piece that lands by his feet. The fibers of the tree disseminate, spread out into thin threads of former life. He wordlessly passes it to Arthur who inspects for a moment before dropping the piece. A rotten tree, he thinks, that would explain why they are taking it down before it can do damage by falling on its own.

The main axe-man, Napoleon notices, is Flint his Welsh gardener. The stolid man stops, holds up a hand. The men tugging at the ropes on the branches also stop. Leaning forward with an air of deep concentration Flint inspects the center of the tree — where the axe has burrowed deepest. The crowd gathers closer, attempting to see what he is seeing. Flint stands back, looks into the crowd, finds Arthur and points, motioning him forward.

‘Your grace, please.’

Arthur walks forward ready to say that he knows little about trees let alone the art of felling one other than the fact that ground-ward is where they ought to be aiming. The trunk is in shambles. Within the shambles he notices the molding center of the tree and within that white shards jutting out and red.

‘Teeth!’ Napoleon is at his elbow and indicating the shards. ‘They look like teeth.’

Flint takes out a knife and carefully pries a shard from the bark, holds it up. ‘Sire,’ he says in English. ‘It is a tooth. You’re right.’ He hands it off to the eager emperor who then passes it to the less eager duke. Carefully Flint pries the other pieces out – thirty odd in total. They are carefully placed in a bag procured by Harriet who had joined them at the tree. Next comes the fabric. A heavy wool, dyed red, and underneath it buttons. Little gold ones with clear military markings.

‘Looks like it belonged to a soldier,’ Arthur says as he turns them over in his palm. A meager five buttons that looked innocent in comparison to the gaping maw of the tree. Arthur glances over to Harriet and Napoleon. Harriet has an expression that is clearly, No, no, no. Napoleon is more pensive. He rolls a molar between thumb and forefinger.

‘The tree ate a man. A soldier.’

‘Trees can’t eat people.’

Napoleon tucks his chin down, clutches his hands behind his back and turns on a heel to face the open field, the grazing sheep, the barley in the distance. Flint wants to know if he should continue. The crowd is itching to see what the hold up is about and so Arthur tells him to go ahead and finish the job but mind he is careful when parsing the tree for firewood and if he finds anything else bring it directly to Woodford Hall to the care of his grace.

‘Trees can’t eat people,’ Arthur repeats to Napoleon who remains pensive. ‘There must be an explanation.’

‘Soldiers have been going missing.’

‘Deserters.’

‘Maybe.’ The molar is held up to the afternoon sky. It is a dull white with a bit of yellow. A young man’s tooth since it is not worn. The buttons glint and warm themselves in the sunlight. Napoleon turns around and looks back to the tree and the forest behind it. Arthur follows his gaze into the slowly growing shadows.

‘This isn’t happening again,’ he hisses.

Napoleon laughs, ‘you say that as if I have any control over it. Tell me, Wellesley, what is your honest opinion on the existence of magic?’


	4. Chapter 4

_Magic_. Arthur laughs. 

‘It is a fable. A fairy tale. Something we tell to children to keep them from wandering into the woods at night—and before you say anything, ghosts, of which we have spoken previously, do not enter this. First, I do not know if I believe entirely the story I told those months ago. Richard and I were three sheets to the wind in a strong gale. Second, I know there are theological arguments for explaining such a phenomena and although I am not, perhaps, the most church going man I will own a belief in God and heavenly bodies. The details of which, however, are not my area of expertise. Therefore I leave the existence, or non-existence, of spirits and ghosts to those better equipped to discuss it. However, the existence of _magic_ I flatly refute. By Jove it isn’t English!’

‘And heaven forbid we have something be _un-English._ ’

‘I took you for a rational man. A child of the enlightenment and revolutions, isn’t that it? A keen appreciator of science, I know you are that at least.’

‘I am. But I am also a man who trusts his own experiences, especially if they happen more than once and to more than one person. That is to say, Wellesley, perhaps jumping to conclusions about magic might be pre-mature but there is _something_ happening here that even you cannot deny. You, too, I am willing to assume are a rational man. Teeth. We found teeth in a tree. Go see Lowe, see who else has “deserted” in the last three weeks and then make a search of the forest. I can guarantee you, on my honour, that we will find remnants of them and in a manner that is not quite of this world.’

Between the two warhorses, on a well-polished table, are a single button and a single molar. They glitter in candlelight.

‘Nothing’s right,’ Arthur sighs sinking into his chair.

‘No, nothing is right.’

Around the house early dusk gathers in its autumnal fashion bringing with it shades and shadows.

 

 

October 14th dawns with low mist that burns away by ten when Arthur and Charles set forth from Woodford Hall to wait upon Sir Hudson Lowe. Harriet had made her excuses over breakfast and then her absence by visiting with Fanny Bertrand. Their scheme for the day? Attempting to tea with the elusive Mary Phillips.

‘We haven’t seen her since our arrival. Only Dr. Phillips the other day on the green. I think it only right we try and call on her.’

Arthur had suggested that perhaps Mary did not want to be called on—her recalcitrant behaviour suggesting a desire to be without company. No, Harriet shook her head, that was perhaps the case when she first lost her child but the subsequent local scandal has most likely forced her into hermitage. She is not invited to assemblies or balls or dinners and it’s rather rude for invitations are made to Dr. Phillips. She shrugged. If she does not want to see us then she won’t be at home and that will be that.

 

Charles and Arthur enter Abelle Hall to find it in uproar. Staff is jittery, many of their faces are the same as May and are clearly shaken by recent events. Officers collect in corners as rain runoff in cracks gossiping. The duke can hear catches of _witchcraft, hauntings, curse of the French, faie_ and more. Lowe, he thinks, is not running a tight enough ship if his men have time for such mutterings.

‘Too many men,’ he says to Charles in a low tone.

‘He writes to complain of the cost of keeping the emperor at least once a month—general, sorry.’

‘I’ll bet he does.’

‘You should address it in December. I know many in parliament who would be more than happy to trim the fat of such expenditures.’

 

Abelle Hall is now part Officer’s quarters, part Mess and general place of loitering for soldiers, and part Lowe’s personal offices. It is lively, well lit, full of noise, clatter and warmth. It is not the tomb of marble it had been. It is not the mausoleum of May but a splendid manor in October. Summer had done wonders. Arthur, with this in mind, tells himself to be inclined to like Sir Hudson Lowe if only out of thankfulness to the changed atmosphere if not out of sheer contrariness.

On Lowe’s desk are the remaining teeth, buttons and scraps of uniform. It is a dismal sight for only mid-day making Lowe’s appearance one of a hang-dog look barring the usual presence of yellow teeth. When Lowe speaks it is easy enough to see that he has fine teeth.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Lowe asks to no apparent person the room. He perches at the edge of his chair, back straight and fingers tense on the edges of the armrests.

‘A disturbing prank,’ Charles soothes. Arbuthnot thinks that he does not much care for Lowe. Far too prone to waste, which is distasteful, and clearly frantic of mind. He does not look at the teeth before him. Instead, he takes an offered chair and places his handkerchief over the offending objects. ‘Something dreadful happened to this poor soldier and someone, who is probably mad, decided to make a cruel and unsettling prank of the matter.’

No one mentions the apparent impossibility of such a feat as the tree had no mark upon it before it was hewn.

‘Old local biddies are saying it is the work of forest spirits,’ Lowe continues, waving in tea. Charles finds himself reminded of Cassius when Caesar said, _Let me have men about me that are fat,_ _sleek-headed men and such as sleep a-nights. Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look._

 _._ ‘They are saying that the spirits are unhappy with the disruption of the land over in Kettering. The building of factories, even the local iron ore works.’

Laughing Charles shakes his head. ‘I know of whom you speak—Mrs. Margery Casellio? Nonna Maggie as she has been dubbed her. Local witch, if you will allow for such a thing. Then there’s Mrs. Topsom, village gossip, and Ms. Eva Kelley, local spinster who is bosom friends with Mrs. Topsom.’

‘Those are the very ones, sir.’

Charles explains that they have been local disturbers of the piece since William the Conqueror and they dislike change to an unhealthy level. If they had their way we’d all be living as if it was 1349, paying obeisance to the pope and dropping like flies from plague. Luckily for all concerned, they have no say in the matter.

Lowe rubs his hands together whilst nodding. He collects himself, looks to Arthur—Does his Grace have any thoughts on the matter?

‘At the moment we know so little.’

‘What does our French friend think? He was there with you when this unfortunate business came to light.’

‘He thinks it mysterious. If I may be impolitic?’

The little lord spreads his hands palm up, Be my guest.

‘Who has deserted and on what dates?’

‘Ah, give me a moment—I have been doing my best to encourage the men. To keep morale up—it’s here, one moment—but it is difficult after we’ve been at war for so long and now there is peace but they still cannot return home. They tire of it, and whilst that is no excuse for desertion it is merely a difficulty to overcome. Here, Ensign Thomas Linden was the first on September 23rd, Captain Harry Evans followed on September 30th and then Lieutenant Amos Wright on October 7th. That is it apart from a few early recruits back in late May, early June who deserted. I believe it was Sergeants John Thompson and Samuel Jacobs. We haven’t heard from them since.’

‘Did they return home?’

Lowe shakes his head, No, no. Which is surprising. Nor were they seen at any of the ports or roads up to Scotland. It’s as if they just disappeared one day. Probably laying low in London, if there is a place where people can hide with ease it is that city.’ The report of the missing sergeants is provided to Arthur who looks it over with interest. From initial glance there appeared to be no connection between the five missing men. Five, he thinks, is a lot to lose in such a small space.

‘May I make a copy of the list?’

‘By all means.’ Lowe leans over to his door and yells through it, ‘Lieutenant Humphrey!’ Layton duly appears with a strained expression. ‘Be so kind as to copy down the relevant information pertaining to the missing soldiers. His Grace and Sir Charles are interested in aiding our inquiries. Make yourself useful to them.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How is Bonaparte?’

‘Well, sir. Tending to his bees, sir.’

‘Good Lord. Well, I suppose it’s better than him gallivanting about the countryside as is his usual want. Your Grace, what think you to my proposal to limiting his movements? It will allow us to maintain a more secure eye on the man.’

Charles makes a face and busies himself with the papers Arthur hands over.

‘I think it unnecessary. If he were to flee he would have done it by now. It’s been over three years and there are rumours in France that their exile is to be made permanent. I’m convinced that, at the moment, he appears to have resigned himself to being a country gentleman.’

‘You are acquainted with him?’

‘Some.’

‘In your opinion as a military man, soldier to soldier, how much of a threat do you think he is?’

‘To France? None. His supporters may rally in his cause but they are hardly strong enough to do much damage to the restoration and he is too far removed from France and the press to cause _too_ much of a disturbance. To Woodford? I fear he may decide to overhaul the village and turn it into the midland’s industrial capital just for something to do. He’s terribly bored, is the impression I have.’

Lowe’s expression, at first sickened then nothing in particular, is now one of absolute revulsion. Bonaparte taking over the town? Does the man have no humility? No, Arthur deadpans. Trust me, he doesn’t.

‘Does he not understand his position?’

‘He does but that’s never stopped him before.’

Lowe gesticulates—See, this is why we need the extra guards! The extra care! You yourself must see that he is a particular threat. We cannot have another Elba.

At this moment Layton returns with the requested copies and gives them to the duke who stands to make his excuses. Lowe shows them to the door shaking their hands, ‘It was an honour your Grace, Sir Charles, an honour. My wife and I would love to have you both for dinner, and the Lady Arbuthnot of course, on Saturday.’

Arthur, deciding to be gallant as Charles appears ready to decline, accepts the invitation on behalf of the party stating that they would be honoured to attend.

Outside Charles shudders. ‘What a man, Arthur, what a man. How is it that he was made general again?’

‘No idea, Charles.’

‘How is he now in charge of Woodford?’

‘Government toadies like to employ fellow toadies. What a day, Charles. Shall we return and see if the Lady Harriet as completed her mission of mercy?’

Charles agrees and thinks that perhaps a light picnic out in the gardens would not be amiss.

 

 

The forest is empty of poachers and hunters and the usual people who live wild for as long as they possibly can. Bertrand crunches a branch underfoot.

‘There is something wrong, sire.’

‘You’re being absurd, Henri. Everything is fine.’

‘You shouldn’t even be here.’

‘No.’

They pry their way through the brush.

‘It’s too quiet. Not even birds.’

‘That’s because we’re making enough noise to be considered a small advancing army. Try and walk with more care.’

‘I, sire?’

Napoleon snorts. Yes you, Henri. No one else around here to talk to, is there? Now, keep your eye out for a tall oak tree with mushrooms growing at the base. I saw something there when I walked through with his stodginess the duke.

They scan the ground, Napoleon leading in the general direction he remembers taking. The forest feels heavier – a screech – both men jerk and look to the direction of the sound and see a crow sitting upon a log. Then it is as if the sound of crows had been there all along for above them a murder circles.

‘Something dead.’ Bertrand whispers.

‘We shall investigate.’

‘The things I do for friendship.’

Napoleon slaps him on the back with a grin, ‘Indeed Henri and have you ever regretted it? Do not answer that. I think they are aiming over here. Come.’

Past the log and through a cluster of thin elms and by the murmuring of a small stream is a dead boar. It is on its back with a crow standing atop its belly. Entrails are in its beak. The bird watches them. Napoleon approaches slowly with Bertrand behind him and he looks down to the dead creature. Already flies cover its open wound and there are late surviving wasps lazily dropping their yellow and black bodies onto the creature.

‘What do you see?’ Bertrand asks.

‘Nothing.’ Napoleon replies.

They stare for a moment longer until the crow screeches and they return to the trail from which they had drifted.

 

 

General Wellesley and Sir Charles return to Woodford Hall in pleased spirits after having made a stop at the local public house for gossip to bring home. Charles is attempting to sing his college song from university days but cannot remember the words so injects plenty of “lalalas” into the verse. Arthur sings along at those bits since they constitute the _only_ words he knows of the tune his friend is attempting to recall.

‘You’re terrible,’ Arthur declares as they ride up to the house. ‘You’ve never been able to sing.’

‘And how! Now, let us go in and see the lady of the house. Also, I want cold ham and some of that local cheese that is so delicious and maybe some comfits. I am feeling bucolic.’

‘Sound ideal. I second the motion.’

‘And it’s cleared with rousing support from the commons.’

Entering the Hall Charles hums that they are home as the servants take their coats and hats. The ladies, they are told, are in Harriet’s private room in the back. Oh, Charles is uncertain, I do not think we should bother them, then.

They repair to the billiards room for another drink and a game. They try for a proper run of it but cannot be bothered and so instead shoot balls around the table and talk political gossip about Lord Liverpool and the new cabinet. Charles, over flowing with opinions, stops attempting anything like pool fairly quickly and takes to leaning on his queue as he lectures Arthur.

Harriet enters.

‘Of course this is what you two are up to. Come, to the gardens. Fanny Bertrand is here and she wants to hear about the Lowe Encounter.’

Charles grins at Harriet, ‘She going to bring the gossip back to her emperor?’

‘I shouldn’t doubt it.’

‘Lowe is terrified of the man. Having met the scourge of Europe, I can’t see it. Arthur?’

‘I can’t say that he’s _terrifying_. He is capable of making an impression when he puts his mind to it, though. But then Lowe didn’t see the state of the French army after Waterloo.’

‘There’s the thing, Lowe has always been defeated by the French. What can he mean by taking up battle with the sod? Pardon my language my dear.’

‘Haven’t the foggiest.’

Their queues are returned to their spot on the stand and they remove to the gardens, still in a state of hectic management. Harriet fusses by her flowers until Fanny begs her to return to the blanket.

Picking the remains of the fruit plate clean Fanny says, ‘You know I’ve seen her since May.’

‘Mary?’ Harriet asks.

Fanny shakes her head, wipes her fingertips on a napkin. ‘No, Georgiana.’

They all exclaim. Fanny smiles.

‘No one believes me. Henri says that it was a trick of my eyes, the usual. Albine just says “of course” which means she does not believe me but I hardly expect an ally in Albine. Charles, Montholon, is too much like his wife to be of any use. The emperor, _general,_ might but he might not. As ever he is impossible to read.’

Harriet grabs Fanny’s hands and holds them close, ‘where did you see her? Where was she?’

‘In that forest. The one where the teeth were found in the tree. The one she would have disappeared into last May.’

The lady of the house turns to Arthur, ‘That is where you and Bonaparte searched for her and only found her dress, correct?’

‘The very one.’

She recoils into herself, sits still with hands in her lap. Charles asks if she is well or perhaps she would like some wine? Wine she would like. Fanny, worried, says, ‘perhaps I should not have mentioned it.’

‘I am very glad you did. Truly. I knew she was not – that is I knew she was alive out there. Arthur, Charles, we must search for her tomorrow. We must! I cannot bear to be here knowing that Georgiana is out in the world and in harm’s way. No matter her faults it is my duty as her cousin.’

 

 

Night falls. It is Wednesday – Mercury’s day in the old Roman ways. Sir Hudson Lowe adds another name to his list of missing men. He rests perturbed that night and will wake early to grey mist and low sun. Wednesday is a day of woe, to some, magic to others, nothing in particular to most.

Mercury, the Roman Odin or perhaps Odin is the Germanic Mercury, is known for his association with tricksters and thieves but also for guiding the souls of the living into the paths of the dead.

 

 

Night. It falls in its typical early fashion bringing choice fogs and a dampness to the air. Arthur and Charles return to the billiards room for a few hours. Harriet retires early to scheme for the search for her cousin.

‘A cheers to our driving dear Harriet mad in December,’ Charles says with raised glass. ‘We’ll need your help securing this unrest at the very least.’

‘I thought it improving.’

‘Neither here nor there, but don’t tell the press.’

Arthur purses his lips, aims for a far pocket. Charles continues, ‘it’s all 1816’s fault with its harvest or lack thereof. Eight-hundred and froze to death _indeed._ Of course, the war with your friend Bonaparte did little to help. Then the Americans at the same time. Really, we’ve just had rum luck of it and now the mob’s smashing factories and machinery and so on. Dreadful business.’

Arthur chalks his queue.

‘You know Castlereagh was afraid there were going to be riots when Boney was not-quite-acquitted but found not-quite-guilty.’

‘War crimes was a rather vague charge you must admit.’

‘Of course but we had to give him something.’

‘Richard’s always worried about riots.’

Charles snorts, ‘you will be too once you join the political world more fully instead of running off to parts foreign.’

‘I’m already well aware of the power of the unrestrained mob. They’re despicable. Hardly civilized. Nothing for it but a whiff of grapeshot.’

‘Cheers to that. Your shot by-the-by.’

‘What think you about the teeth in the tree? Actually—not the rubbish spouted to calm Lowe.’

The older man lingers over his scotch, looks out the window to the darkness of the gardens. It had been beautiful mere hours before but now it is forlorn. Lonesome. A dreary place with an odd mystic quality about it.

‘I’m not sure what I think. But I refuse to give into superstitions. What does your friend Boney actually think? I cannot believe that he does not sport a theory.’

‘I’d hardly call him a friend. And I don’t know. We spoke of it after the initial discovery. He asked me if I believe in magic.’

‘Ha! And do you?’

‘God Charles, of course not.’ Arthur finishes his drink and pours another. ‘Did Harriet tell you about last May?’

‘Pieces here and there. Really all I know is what was told to me when I arrived, that there had been an accident of some sort and that Georgiana had gone missing.’

‘Did anyone mentioned the … things we had been seeing?’

‘No,’ drawn out. ‘Can’t say that was mentioned.’

‘Let’s sit. I’ve no mood for the game.’

Moveing to Charles’ study they take seats by the fire. Arthur finds the list of disappeared men in his pocket beside his watch. He places it on the table and puts his tumbler over it to flatten it out. Young Layton’s messy handwriting fish-eyes its way through the liquor. Linden is the first name. The name of a tree.

After a lengthy pause during which he gathers his thoughts and begs Harriet’s forgiveness for he knows this to be a story that is more her right to tell than his he begins.

‘It started with a dinner at Abelle Hall which was hosted only a few nights after we had arrived. There were rumours of a scandal surrounding a death of Georgiana’s cousin the year before but I shan’t get into the details. The entire cast was there, Our party—me, Harriet, Kitty—the Preston-Wrights of course, Mrs. Topsom, the French minus children, and Dr. Phillips and his wife Mary.

‘At some point we ended up telling ghost stories. I dug the old one out about Richard and I in Edinburgh. Bonaparte had a few from his campaign days. I believe Madam Bertrand, Fanny, had one or two she had picked up about the Civil War. The night ended in an uneventful manner. Yet from that point on there was a noticeable shift. Not that the atmosphere had been welcoming before, but there was a tension that was new. An unease settled on us—not aided by the horrendous weather which kept us all indoors. But as the days crept by there was a distinct sense that we were being followed and watched. I remember seeing a sort of shadowed woman in the gardens here on multiple occasions, as did Harriet. Then there was the creature from Bonaparte’s story which _he_ claims follows him from time to time.

‘I know. I know it sounds ridiculous—I can see your skepticism Charles and I do not blame you. I am skeptical myself. But it felt so real at the time. The events, at any rate, culminated in a strange way around Georgiana’s disappearance. She claimed she needed to take some air after a heated discussion then that was it. Into thin air. We looked for her, of course.’

‘We?’

‘Montholon, Bertrand, Bonaparte and myself. The general and I ended up in the forest, the one from the other day, following a set of tracks that led off the trail. All we found was her dress, shredded, no blood. And there was something, I swear to God and back, something following us in those woods. Watching and waiting. It sounds so ludicrous in the re-telling, and I’m missing details, ask Harriet for them. But this tree incident, it brings everything back to mind. Coupled with the disappearances I cannot help but wonder-‘

‘Come off it Arthur, you can’t be serious.’

‘No, no. I mean, I can’t help but think that there must be _something_ going on here that is worth looking into.’

‘Do you believe what Madame Bertrand said today? About seeing Georgiana.’

‘Well I hope she has gained clothes in the meanwhile.’

‘Be serious Arthur.’

The duke holds up a hand, yes yes he will be serious. He isn’t sure, he finally sighs. But we will make a search tomorrow of course. We might as well. And who knows what we will find? There are things afoot here in Woodford, regardless of their possible (if improbable) supernatural origins it is right and fitting that things be sorted.

 

 

Do not follow the fairy lights. Do not eat the fruits of the goblin folk. For who knows upon what dark and twisted soils they have fed their thirsty hungry roots.

 

 

Arthur dreams. It is of the dead passing before him. Gordon’s horse makes a show. He sees men he knows and even more he does not but he remembers their faces and when they died and how their twisted, filthy fallen bodies looked upon plains, river-banks, battlements.

He comes to a forest and in it is a wild boar. It is dead. There is a man reading its entrails but then it is not a man but a creature shrouded in a hood of stars. A veil across its face. He wakes hearing the ocean and remembering the sound of thunder.

 

 .   .   .

 .   .   .

 .   .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Do not eat the fruits of the goblin folk. For who knows upon what dark and twisted soils they have fed their thirsty hungry roots" shamelessly riffed and altered from the brilliant writing of Christina Rossetti.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll stop stealing titles from that children's poem when they stop being relevant. Which will be literally the next chapter.

Enter morning. Dawn spreading light across the sky as thin tendrils – fingers of the sun inching forward with irrepressible duty. The light dancing across Arthur’s pillow, but it is the gentle stuff of Autumn and so the blinding effect of most mornings is lacking. The memory of a line comes to him _-_ _I would kill you boldly, but not wrathfully; I would carve you as a dish fit for God._ And then what? _Here dids’t I fall; and here my hunter stands, sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy lethe._  

When was it that he had dreamt those lines? It feels akin to years ago. Merely months, naturally. He wonders if the emperor-general has ever had such dreams. Of bleeding pieces of earth. Of the mud and soil eating away at frail human flesh. Earth to earth. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Consigning body to death and the pathways of the dead. He thinks he must. He thinks that he has to. He thinks that he ought not to be thinking on the emperor-general for Arthur is a duke with a wife and a family and a position in society. He is not an island alone, no matter how much he wishes he were.

He thinks: We cannot keep this up.

He thinks: It’s ridiculous that it has lasted this long. That we even let it _begin_. It’s farcical, really.

Despite his usual habit of rising from bed as soon as he has woken he lets himself sink back into sleep. The scattered shards of light broken across the floor and the eiderdown on the bed become fading, murky, untenable. He dozes off, wakes with the taste of salt-peter in the back of his throat.

 

 

The forest in question has yet to be fully explained beyond it being relatively new. Begun around 1690 or 1700 it is situated north east of Woodford, a mile or so from Woodford Hall but only a quarter or half a mile from the town, and survived the division of local land on the behalf of the 1764 enclosures. Locally, it is known as the Shrubbery and through it runs two main paths wide enough for two horses and they intersect in the centre of the forest before one juts off east and the other south towards the River Nene. Naturally, there are smaller foot paths through the land used by poachers and those intent on foraging. Usually, it is not uncommon to find farmers or local labourers milling about having a surreptitious drink and smoke before returning to the fields or, further off, to the mines Charles Arbuthnot was beginning to develop.

 

It is along the main east-west path that Harriet, Arthur and Charles begin their search. That the search was most likely in vain was never discussed. That Georgiana wouldn't be in the forest hardly occurred, or rather, it was not allowed to occur for the possibility that had seemed so real the evening before was now, in the sober light of morning, an obvious distant reality.

From the beginning of the forest it is possible to see Abelle Hall and the dotted sentry towers built by Lowe. A bell sounds, changing of the guard Arthur assumes. It comes suddenly, seeing the land as it was in his memory. First, like Waterloo for the landscape here in Woodford is a mirror of that in Belgium. But it is gone sooner than a blink for then it becomes mist covered, fog bound, with constant rain. He frowns at the accompanying memories that must necessarily make themselves known. He tells himself that he will speak to the emperor as soon as possible and that his resolution of the morning will hold.

Charles, seeing the hesitation, takes sport, ‘looking for ghosts Arthur?’

‘Hardly.’

They move forward with deliberate patience and are methodical in their approach. Arthur looks to the left, Charles to the right, Harriet keeps a firm eye on the road behind. Towards the crossroad they see a break in the brambles to the side of the path which Arthur sees as progress – at last!

Charles indicates the spot, ‘Someone has been through here.’

Dismounting they inspect the area and can see where the person kept moving forward. A silent consensus leads to them tying up their horses and making their way forward on foot. Harriet cannot imagine coming this way at night in and evening gown, as Georgiana had. It was difficult enough in daylight and dressed for the occasion let alone in muslin and inappropriate shoes.

 

'Can you make anything out, Arthur?' Harriet asks. She can feel the vegetation pressing in around her. There are twigs in her hair and branches grabbing at her clothes. The feeling is one of being tugged from side to side by the land.

'I cannot other than that at some point someone came through here and I'd say fairly... There are voices,' he holds up his hand and they halt. Ahead of them is a distinct murmuring gradually getting louder. Arthur calls out, who is there?

Silence. Then a few whispers. The duke wishes the hair on his neck was not standing up for it was not aiding the situation in any way.

He is about to call out again when he hears a laugh, 'only an invading French army. But don't worry, we treat prisoners well.'

The brush to their right moves and the group can see Bertrand and Napoleon materialize from the forest.

Charles grins and shakes their hands, 'well met! You had us frightened there for a moment.'

Bertrand's smile is wan. He says that it isn't them that they should be scared of. Napoleon motions to the group, Come look at what Henri and I found.

Arthur's early morning resolution returns. He wants to say no, that they were doing something specific. Looking for someone. Not here to follow the emperor wherever he leads but he finds he cannot. Not with those eyes on him and a solemn, stern look gracing those usually mobile features. Instead, he sighs and allows the two Frenchmen to lead the way.

'It is through here,' Henri moves them through the underbrush and into a less overrun part of the woods. Arthur notes a small clearing with a creek running through it. Beside the creek is a granite rock half covered in moss and with most of its mass still clearly below ground.

Henri leads them to it and indicates where the rock meets the ground. Arthur sees the red scrap before Charles and Harriet but when they catch sight of it they exclaim.

'Is that not more uniform?' Harriet asks bending to touch it. The emperor catches her elbow and shakes his head.

'There is a button that matches the ones found the other day.' Henri says. 'Also there are some scratches along the edge here, clear lines. Are they runes?'

Charles steps forward to investigate and shakes his head. No. Well, that its, there is a repetition to them that I would think implies that they are used for communication but I do not recognize them. Should we move the rock?

'If we do we will need to get help,' Arthur says. 'It's too large for the mere four of us.'

Harriet, 'five of us. But the point remains. I have a question, general. During your rides have you ever noticed or come upon a woman living wild?'

'Your cousin, you mean? No, I can't say that I have.' He pauses, considers the forest around them. 'I do not doubt that Madame Bertrand saw someone. Whether or not it was your cousin I cannot say. Maybe it was. Maybe she does not want to be found.'

'Do _you_ think it her?'

'No, I do not.'

Harriet sighs, leans into a nearby tree. I suppose, she owns, it was a far-fetched hope.

Charles takes her arm and says, Come let us leave this place for now.

With the French residence being closer than Woodford Hall they decide to break for refreshments there and are met with an expectant Albine and Fanny. They want to know if the emperor and Bertrand found anything of merit.

The buttons and fabric are produced and inspected. Albine asks, Anything else? Any ah, she motions to her lips, the delicate teeth behind them.

‘Nothing so morbid, this time,’ Bertrand replies.

Tea is served. They take their time with it. Fanny looks to Harriet with a questioning glance. Harriet shakes her head. In the corner of the room sits Montholon scribbling furiously. Napoleon, finding this amusing, explains in a low voice to Arthur, the Comte cannot decide what will bring him more money. My memoir or the latest happenings here. He should enter the market as a writer of romantic novels.

‘Deter him from such a venture, if you have any love of my sanity. There are enough romantics spouting nonsense for my taste.’

‘You do not care for Byron? I have a book of his poetry that has been translated. You must tell me if it is accurate.’

Arthur thinks, I shall not for I shall not borrow it from you and I shall not read it and I shall not speak with you again after this day for I have made up my mind. Arthur says, ‘Of course, if you do not mind my scoffing over it.’

‘I would never suspend any pleasure of yours, your grace.’

Napoleon moves off to speak with Charles and Bertrand. Arthur, stewing in his thoughts, wishes everyone away and the day to be over. No! Rather, that the day had never begun.

 

 

The day passes amiably. Cards are played, Napoleon cheats terribly and is amused at Charles’ horror. Montholon requests Arthur to read over part of his manuscript – he does not say which one until an outline of Napoleon’s views on Spain are thrust under his nose. Arthur testily pushes them away, I do not know what you are playing at, monsieur, but I assure you that the general and I have very different views on Spain. Harriet and Fanny disappear into the gardens for an hour to discuss, presumably, Georgiana. Maybe not, Arthur thinks, maybe it is mundane things. Fanny has children who are in need of education and a love of theatre. Maybe they are discussing the latest opera and Eaton.

It comes to him that this is his moment.

 

‘May I have a word?’

Napoleon says, Of course. They decant to the library and Arthur is poured a brandy.

‘Lowe’s lost another one,’ Napoleon says as he hands Arthur his glass. He pulls the other man onto the settee and leans into him.

‘Lowe needs to do something about that.’

‘For once, I don’t think it’s his fault.’

‘I do not believe that the forest is eating people.’

Napoleon raises an eyebrow, Sure, of course. Did you notice the new growth?

Arthur shifts, wants to pull away but finds that Napoleon is akin to a weight on a sheet. Everything pivots in towards him, all attention, all bodies, all things inevitably are drawn to him. Even in exile he is a presence.

He wants to say, This is not what I am here to discuss. I am here to tell you that I am ending whatever it is we have. That is, we _wont_ anymore. That we _shouldn’t_ have to begin with. That it was a mistake. A continuing mistake set along a trajectory that spells out _tragedy_ in large letters. A beautiful typeset of ‘this is how you will fall’. He cannot, so he lets Napoleon talk. The former-emperor has a pleasant voice, at any rate. And Arthur tells himself that it will give him time to arrange his thoughts that seem to scatter any time Napoleon is near him.

‘My gardener, Monsieur Flint, has indicated that the forest has ah, been growing.’

‘Isn’t that was forests do?’

‘Sure, but this is different. He says that new, fully grown trees have sprouted up over night. As if by-‘

‘People didn’t notice them before. I’m sure that’s the reason.’

‘If you’d like.’

Arthur sucks a breath in. There is a hand on his thigh. It is warm. He closes his eyes. Feels his chest tighten in conflict with that usual tug.

The breath is let go. Napoleon is now looking at him, expression one of apparent concern.

‘I cannot do this,’ Arthur says. He explains quickly, ‘I have a family. Children, brothers, expectations—I cannot.’

Of course Napoleon remains unmoved. Arthur cannot guess what is going through the man’s mind.

‘I am entering the political sphere more fully,’ he continues. He thinks this might be a route that Napoleon will understand.

‘Only as a member of cabinet. Only as Master of the Ordnance.’

The hand is removed.

‘Only has master—!’

‘It’s not like you’re prime minister.’

‘Maybe,’ Arthur insists. ‘It’s in the cards. Not now, of course, but in the future. And I must have a clean record.’

Napoleon sneers, ‘you? Prime minister? You’re as charming as a clam.’

‘Is that what you think of me?’

At some point they stood. Napoleon is by the fire, nudging the grate with his foot. Arthur feels trapped for the emperor’s eyes are on him and he does not know what to do.

‘That is what others think of you. Except women. But they aren’t the ones getting you into office. Well,’ the mouth turns from sneer to smile. ‘Perhaps Madame Arbuthnot-‘

‘Do not!’

A shrug. Arthur throws his hands up. It is too much. Just too much to expect some form of understanding from a man who is barely a gentleman. Who is too much a hot-tempered, hot-blooded, low-born _Corsican_ to be anything but barbaric and low in his understanding.

‘Fine,’ Arthur snarls when he is finished with his piece. Napoleon, now, is very still. He knows that the man has a temper and thus far he has never seen it. He expects shouting. He expects the man to snap something back. To hit him, even. He knows the stories. Instead, though, he is still. Completely unmoving. Arthur holds up a finger, ‘no matter your opinion of my political aspirations. Which, coming from _you_ in _your_ situation is absurd. None of it negates my decision.’

‘No. It does not. But I think you a fool, Arthur Wellesley. A fool and a coward.’

Arthur leaves. He cannot allow himself to think as he waits for his horse to be brought to him. It is all too much. The road to the Hall is a blur – from the evening mist and from his mind as he replays the conversation. Upon his return to the Hall he drinks a bottle of wine with Charles and wishes himself away from England.

 

Dusk, still. Bertrand hears threads of an argument and the decided sound of two doors slamming – one being from the duke and the other from the emperor. He turns in his chair to Montholon.

‘You owe me. They got into a serious argument before Christmas.’

‘Did the emperor punch his grace?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Doesn’t count.’

Bertrand snorts and settles back into his chair. He turns the newspaper in hand over. Montholon’s pen continues to scratch in the background. Elsewhere, the sounds of Hortense practicing her scales. Fanny and Albine in the parlour playing a very polite, if cold, game of cards. Children upstairs can be heard running up and down the hall but no one is in the mood to reprimand them. Bertrand stands, throws the paper to Montholon and says he should read the bit on the back page. Maybe he should change his investments.

Crossing the room he watches twilight deepen to full night. The emperor stands by the beehives and is his standard pensive stance.

‘He’s going to be in a mood for a week now.’ Montholon complains from the desk. ‘Oh God, and they’re coming tomorrow for dinner.’

‘Who?’

‘The Woodford Hall party. Hopefully his grace will plead ill. I don’t have the stamina for a public argument.’

‘You liar,’ Bertrand turns around, leans against the panes. ‘You love a good argument so long as it’s not directed at you.’

Montholon grins and points to Bertrand with the paper. ‘And you don’t?’

The grand marshal shrugs. He thinks that the argument had been only a matter of time and it probably is over something stupid like hurt egos and pride and lost battles. Though, with Napoleon, he thinks that it is hard to tell. It is usually either extremely petty or extremely personal. Enough to drive a man to madness if he weren’t a friend.

The buttons and fabric on the desk catch his eye. Montholon follows his gaze, leans back into his chair with hands resting, linked on his stomach.

‘If I wasn’t here I wouldn’t believe it.’ He says.

Bertrand, ‘have you read the back page of the paper, yet?’

‘No.’

‘It’s about this. Someone in London has caught wind.’

‘Matter of time, really.’

‘Do I smell a wager?’

Montholon grins, Of course. I’m always open to a wager.

How long until the London mob come to us and to witness the debacle that this town has become?

Bertrand says that they will come by November. Montholon says no, after Christmas. They shake.

‘Someone should take our finds to Lowe.’

Montholon makes a face. Sure, he says, you can. I don’t want to stir from the warmth of indoors tonight; _especially_ if it is only for the prospect of seeing Lowe. And while you are out you can make our stubborn imperial master come inside before he catches his death.

 

 

Bertrand leaves wearing a green riding coat and carrying the buttons and piece of fabric in saddlebag. He is riding a pretty grey Arabian recently purchased. Not as light or small as Vizir but a good-looking horse and quick – which is the main point. Fanny waves goodbye from the window and tells her children that they will have to go to bed now and in the morning they will see their papa. Montholon, by midnight, entices the recalcitrant Napoleon inside with promises of a chess game and a good wine. The night ends with Napoleon and Montholon drinking a bottle of wine and Napoleon wishing himself away from England.

 

 

 .   .   .

 .   .   .

 .   .


	6. Chapter 6

Napoleon does not count himself a reflective man in the maudlin sense of the notion. Reflection for the purpose of betterment – in war, in politics, in rational and philosophical thought – certainly. But reflection on memories for the sake of reliving those (often bittersweet) moments is not an act he had time for, before.

Naturally, things have changed.

It is early morning, the sun yet to rise but the gradual shift from night to day begins to make tangible effect on the world. Namely, everything is very grey but not the deep, black-blue-grey of night. More the deep-grey-white of five in the morning. The sense of daylight coming can be felt. The knowledge perhaps making things appear brighter than they are. Napoleon thinks that for the moment he likes this state of _between._ The softness of it, the distinct _less_ -ness of it.

He is by the river and remembering his house on rue de la Victoire, or rue Chantereine as it was initially. There had been a green rug upstairs – an awful brown-green. Sort of _off._ He cannot think where it came from but exist in their house it did. Around the edges of it were cherubs done in faded white. The entire monstrosity had a distinct yellow tinge to it which is something he chose not to ponder too long when it had been something they trod on regularly – sometimes only in stockings.

God, he thinks, why did we ever keep the thing?

Josephine had said, We ought to get rid of it. (He remembers the moment exactly for she had been wearing a pale pink dress and a white shawl and her hair was undone for they were being private and it was in tumbles down her back and she had been laughing kindly at a stupid joke he made about the carpet’s yellow tinge and on the table beside the window had been a rose. Of course a rose.)

He had said, Sure. Let’s foist this off on someone we don’t like. We’ll get a new one. Blue, maybe?

She had said, No, not blue. I couldn’t – in this room. It would jar too much.

And there the matter had rested until they left that house and he never saw the ugly rug again.

Why, he wonders aloud, am I thinking about that thing after all these years?

He knows much of it has to do with Montholon and the memoire. It drags up thoughts from dusty corners of his mental cabinet.

In Tuilieres he had a set of candle sticks with little horses at the base designed to look much like a charioteers’ horse from ancient Rome. When thinking he would press his finger against their ears till an indent was made. One time he had done it too hard and the holder fell over scattering wax onto desk and papers and Meneval had apologised out of habit despite his being on the other side of the room and then apologised for apologising.

Where are these things now? That ugly rug, those candlesticks? State papers with little drawings up the side – spider webs, odd shapes, stars, eyes, caricatures of Talleyrand, Lucien, Berthier – where are those things now? Dead and buried, he thinks. Only they were never living to begin with so perhaps that is the wrong way to think of it. I am dead a buried, though, and those little things that represent a life lived must therefore be as well.

 

The thought of the brown-green rug appearing here in Woodford amuses him for a time. Montholon would despise it. Albine would as well. Bertrand would never say a thing but would probably question the sartorial decision to put it in a room with puce coloured chairs.

He kicks a log, watches it tumble a few feet. He kicks it a second time, it lands in the river with a dull squelch. It sits in the reeds, unmoving. Napoleon sighs. Stomps along the river path heading away from Woodford to the forest. The Shrubbery, rather. Although lately it has been looking less like a shrubbery and more like something from an Arthurian legend. Villagers have been shying away from it and not even labourers will go in to drink and game as was their usual wont. He hears from Albine that since the incident of the old oak tree people have been keeping in doors at night. Have been whispering old stories of their grandparents about banshees and fairies and witches and gnomes.

In his pocket are buttons. His mind skitters back to the other opened compartment. He thinks, His most royal highness the Duke of Wellington would hate that rug. Maybe I should send one just like it to his wife. She strikes me as the sort to put it in a room with puce coloured chairs. A room that guests use regularly so all and sundry in London will know about Duke’s ugly rug. At least Josephine kept it hidden away where only we had to suffer its existence. And even then, only in the winter. He laughs for a moment. Pauses at a fork in the road, looks towards the forest and there is a thin, soft mist arising between him and the trees. Where is the sun? Slowly making its way up but not yet fully risen. The eerie twilight of morning.

Napoleon starts up the path towards the woods, stopping when he comes to the recently appearing new trees he scowls at them. New, though, is the wrong word for the trees appear old. Old-new trees. He walks around one to make an inspection. It looks like a tree. Nothing unusual, he surmises. Other than it and its siblings having abruptly appeared from no where as if by — he laughs. The effect of appearing and no one having seen you coming is one that Napoleon knows personally so he pats the tree and walks further along the path.

That the Shrubbery had changed cannot be denied. He thinks it very clear that the last two to three days, since the oak tree really (perhaps, it must be owned, the villagers are on to something), have been momentous. Pulling a notebook out he records the time and date and estimates the average growth of the forest from its original boundary, which he thinks he recognizes, to where it stands now. It is badly done since he is no cartographer and is without any instruments but at least some record is made.

At his feet is a circle of mushrooms.

Ugly-rug-mental-cabinet closes and another opens. He wonders what can have changed in three days. Had someone found out? That seems the most plausible reason but surely the ridiculous man would have made mention of it. Had there been rumours? They had been careful, naturally, and very discreet but then privacy in Woodford village is a laughable concept. Generally, he had been relying on the perceived sheer impossibility of it keeping everything and everyone at bay. It had been working, he had thought. The duke getting a case of mere nerves is another possibility and Napoleon wonders if he should mention that to the other man. Probably not. Too much like Kitty, a bad case of nerves, to go over very well.

The sound of hooves jars the moment of revere and Napoleon looks up from the mushroom circle expecting - what? The fairy court? The thought reads as impossible but at the same time, he must owe, everything that has happened for the past fortnight and then the se’en nights five months past also read as impossible.

There, in the lane, stands a lone horse with saddle hanging sideways.

Napoleon sees the colour of the creature, a lovely grey, the saddle and bag he recognizes, the bridle as well. He thinks, _No._

Moving to take the horse in hand he calls out for Bertrand. No answer. The horse will not be turned back to the forest, not even for an apple.

‘Bertrand?’

He lets the horse go and walks further up the path but can see no sign of the grand marshal.

‘Bertrand?’

He examines the ground but finds naught but fallen leaves of yellow, orange and red.

Something moves off the path to his right. Behind him the horse neighs, skittering to the side then bolts forward out of the forest.

Napoleon can see the signs of risen sun outside the tree line but within there is only twilight. A gloomy, never ending twilight. And the air is tense with a buzzing feeling that vibrates against the skin causing a sense of friction as one moves. Ignoring the rustling in the bushes he heads in further. The air continues to be thick, heavy, almost difficult to breath. Beyond the rustling, which quickly stops, there is no sound. Only his own footsteps and breath which, because of the early morning cold, is a ghostly fog.

An absurd thought occurs: Winter will be here soon and it will be harsh and long and it will be the prince of Waterloo’s fault, somehow. I choose to blame him, regardless. Asinine. Maybe we should crown him prince. The weight would break his neck. It broke mine and I had the fortune of putting the crown upon my own head.

He stops. Laughs. Stops laughing. Closes his eyes then opens and shakes his head.  _This will not do._

Ahead the mist gathers, piles on top of itself, shifting and changing making new shapes as it appears to grow. He watches as it solidifies into something tall and a figure steps forward from it.

A man, Napoleon thinks. Poorly dressed though, in rags.

Bright red rags with little gold buttons.

The man takes a step closer, his eyes never looking at Napoleon yet never leaving his face. He is taller than average, thin, making for an unnatural stretching effect. The buzzing of the air intensifies. The surrounding silence of the forest, which feels suddenly deeper and darker, becomes defeaning.

Napoleon can hear himself breath. He can feel his heart beating.

The man’s eyes do not fit the face and Napoleon has trouble looking at them for he cannot focus on them, cannot quite see them. And the mouth is wrong, too. The skin is stretched across the face so jarring cheekbones jut out and it looks thin and forced to cling to too long limbs. There are places where it seems to be breaking. As if fault lines, rifts of flesh – thin flesh – were forming.

‘Where is Bertrand?’ His voice sounds too loud and rough for the silence. The tall man doesn’t respond. Napoleon tries again in English, Where is Bertrand?

Another absurd thought: The last time I spoke English I was telling Wellesley that he had a twig in his hair.

The tall man continues to not respond.

His face, it occurs to Napoleon, is familiar despite the uncanny features. He knows he has seen it before.

The man moves forward again and is now standing close to the emperor-general who is wishing dearly that he was armed. The man lifts up his right arm and reaches forward to place it alongside Napoleon’s face. It feels at once like he is being burned yet frozen. His eyes water and he blinks it away. The hand, which is claw-like, remains against his face.

‘Where is Bertrand?’ He tries again. The man tilts his head to the side but the blank expression remains.

And now the rustling returns coupled with a foul stench. First, akin to sulfur. Then it becomes Waterloo, Austerlitz, Toulon – it becomes the dead and dying. It is a slaughtered man and steed in summer on the battlefield left to rot. He can see the flies on the hollow face, the wasps eating hollow flesh. It is the smell of Lannes losing his leg. Of the guillotine in July. Of his men in Egypt with burbling, gurgling pustules protruding from neck and armpit. He remembers thinking, I hadn’t realized buboes make noise. He wants to gag, to vomit, to heave the little that is in his stomach on to the leaf covered ground but he cannot move for the tall man is still looking-not looking at him and is still burning-freezing his claw-hand into his face.

He can hear movement behind him. The sound of claws on dirt, leaves moving, the stench is overwhelming and he wonders if he is going to die and if they will find scraps of clothing, bits of bone and teeth in a tree, under a boulder and say, These are the remains of Napoleon Bonaparte, once Emperor of France reduced now to molars and a scrap of fabric. Put it in a pine box and forget him in a table drawer of an unused, dusty corridor.

 

The face looking at him has no eyes. That is why he cannot see them. He starts, at that revelation. And the face – oh he has seen it before has he not? He has seen it on a man wearing a uniform whose name was that of a tree. But he has also seen it before—

The tall man smiles.

—in the entrails of a boar in a dream.

The tall man’s teeth are very white.

 

  
 .   .   .

 .   .   .

 .   .

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Naturally, the news of an argument between the two most prominent men in the village does not remain hidden. Arthur had explained that they had disagreed about politics. 'Politics,' Harriet had replied. Her skepticism evident. But she had not pushed it for it had been late and cold and she knew Arthur would tell her all only when ready. Now with the morning come with soft light it strikes her as ridiculous and surely the two could have differing views on important matters without resorting to childish behaviour. She isn't sure who is at fault, Arthur or Napoleon. Probably both. What had they been arguing about, she asked. 

The Hall wakes at their usual hour and gathers for breakfast around eight. To Harriet's delight there are papers from London on the table as she arrives. Before Arthur and Charles can get their hands on them she scoops them up and places them in front of her with a clear look of 'these are mine'. 

The day is looking to be one of the few good ones as October reaches its last few weeks and so Charles suggests they take advantage whilst they may.

‘We can go to Cranford and perhaps a long ride before dinner.’

Arthur pulls a face. Harriet purses her lips, turns a page of the paper she is reading over.

‘Really, Arthur,’ Charles continues as he butters toast. ‘I think it dashed ridiculous that you feel the need to plead ill simply because Bonaparte is being unreasonable.’

Arthur sips his tea.

‘Come tonight and we will have a good laugh about the wretched fellow afterwards. It will be like attending insipid dinners during the Season in Town.’

Harriet hums under her breath, rustles the paper in a definitive motion. She looks up at the two gentlemen and smiles. 

Charles turns to her, ‘yes?’

‘I thought I would change the subject from our beloved friend’s current recalcitrant behaviour to that of the latest news.’

Arthur glares at her from over his egg.

She amends, ‘perhaps not the latest. This is only the morning addition from the fourteenth – la! the second coming could be happening as we speak and we wouldn’t know it. The post is usually more reliable than this. Still, I have found something that might be of interest.’ She adjusts the paper and reads the following:

 

            "It is reported in a private letter from Paris, that Mr. Parish, of Antwerp, a rich American broker, charged with the interests of Joseph Buonaparte (aside: whom we know is one of the particular favourites of old Boney’s siblings), has arrived at Aix-la-Chapelle, to solicit for the Countess of Survillers, now at Frankfurt, permission to go to Paris to rejoin her sister, the Queen of Sweden, and to embark immediately for the _Champ d’Asyle,_ where her husband is invited to repair by the new colonists".

 

Charles laughs and slaps the arm of his chair, ‘Lowe is going to be in a right state about this! An agent of Joseph Bonaparte’s in Europe! Can you not picture the leaps and bounds his over-frenzied imagination is taking? _Gloire_!’

Finally, the duke lets himself smile and emits a brief chuckle. Charles declares a victory and demands Harriet read the scandal sheets as celebration of the return of the friend’s good humour. Surely there is some good news about the poor Princess Caroline and the Milan commission. There isn't but the adventures of their Prince Regent and news from the congress at Aix-la-Chapelle is enough to entertain for the remainder of their breakfast.   

 

 

It is with continuing good humour that Charles and Arthur set forth on their ride. First they think of heading directly for Cranford out of sheer desperation to see something other than Woodford but decide that Cranford can wait and the cheerful sun and good weather means they should take advantage of the last hours of the morning and call on Lord Lowe. If only for something to do and as a means of witnessing any effect the news of Mr Parish may have upon the man.

Coming upon Abelle Hall they are witness to a Scene. Men scattered about running to and fro. Not an inconsiderable amount stand confused, watching the to-ing and fro-ing with apparent concern. Still others mingle with each other in the shaded bits of the yard and eye the newcomers with eagerness. A bell rings for changing of the guard and the chaos increases, swelling not unlike waves at sea before a squall.

Charles says, ‘If this is how Lowe reacts to the slight possibility of Joseph Bonaparte’s agents _maybe_ contacting his brother I’d hate to see him in full crises mode. As his future boss, Master of the Ordnance, do you think he has enough men?’

‘Oh, he could easily use another fifty score.’

The serious expression on Arthur’s face causes Charles to laugh. The duke insists upon his earnestness and that this is not in jest, though quite obviously Charles is confused upon the point. Charles snorts indelicately, ‘you’ve always had a dry sense of humour, Arthur. I’ve missed it these past few years.’

‘There has been precious little to laugh about.’

This is owned to be true. A somber hue takes hold for a restful minute as they approach the front of the hall and hand their horses off. But it cannot remain for their attendant is a young fellow hoping on one foot due to his other having been a landing pad for a canon ball which was mishandled in the fray. Why are they getting the artillery out? All three canons Lowe requested. The young man doesn’t know. He says, ‘apparently you never can tell with Old Boney’. Arthur murmurs to Charles, 'I think he's becoming paranoid if he believes canons necessary to keep Bonaparte in line.'

‘We shouldn't be long,’ Charles tells the lad. ‘Only here for a few minutes. We shan’t be in your way longer than that.’

The attending lad remains is unconvinced but does limp the horses over to a shaded spot to be tethered.

 

Charles strides in to Lowe’s office and drops himself into a chair with aplomb. Arthur follows suite, although with less flair. They lounge expectantly. Lowe fidgets in front of them. He taps his fingers upon the desk in rapid fire before bracing both hands on the edge and scooting himself back. The chairs scrapes on old wood.

He declares, ‘you are both remarkably calm given the circumstances.’

Down the hall a clock chimes for three. Arthur frowns; his own reads nine. He taps it in concern before making a muttered apology to the watching lord.

Lowe waves him off, ‘no one’s timepieces have been functioning lately. Which, by the way, I am _sure_ is somehow part of _his_ plan. That and the expansion of the forest over the past few days. Positively diabolical. Corsican devilry I've no doubt. It is not to be borne! But rest assured, my lord, your grace, we are doing everything in our power to recover them.’

Charles, ‘recover who?’

‘Generals Bonaparte and Bertrand of course! I sent a man straight off to bring you the news. They have not been seen all morning. The last General Bertrand was seen was late last night when he left here—‘

Arthur, ‘what was he doing?’

‘Delivering more missing pieces concerning the puzzle of the deserting men. He left no later than eleven. Maybe. Difficult to say what with one’s timepiece insisting on not working.’

‘And Bonaparte?’

Lowe shrugs, ‘Montholon saw him around two or three, apparently they had a late night. By this morning at nine there was no sign of him. Lieutenant Humphrey went to conduct his usual check on him and reported back directly.’

Charles asks for further particulars. Is his horse gone? No, but Bertrand’s is. Money? Clothes? Food? Weapons? No, no, no, and no. According to Montholon and the General’s suspicious looking valet Cipriani (why suspicious? Charles mutters to Arthur. Because he’s Corsican, Arthur mutters back) all is accounted for. It seems the general simply vanished, only men do not do that sort of thing. People simply do not just up and disappear. The villagers are terrified. The rapid growth of the forest, Lowe explains, they put down to sorcery. The disappearing men? Witchcraft. Who began it all? Lady Georgiana, of course. And maybe the doctor’s wife but as she is still around public consensus remains uncertain at best.

The contemplative thought the three men had descended into for a moment is jarred as a commotion outside, in the yard, brings their attention to the present. There, a high pitched squeal of a pig, no something bigger, a boar.

Arthur’s palms are itching. He thinks he has seen all of this before in a dream or maybe a play. Regardless, he cannot shake the sense of  _deja vu_  rapidly descending upon him. 

As they move out in the gardens to investigate they discover a boar dead on its back by Lady Georgiana’s old roses. The large ones that smell oh so sickeningly sweet in mid-summer months. The ones that she tore through when she ran away that night. Or did she run? Arthur realizes that everyone thinks she ran. Everyone chooses to remember her as running. But perhaps she merely walked away. No one had been there so see her, after all. He think, We were all inside at the time. We were all not looking at each other. Looking up from the boar there is the forest in the background. Walked away? Or towards. Who knows what was going on in her mind that night.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Lowe snaps. His men cannot provide a satisfactory answer. Arthur’s palms keep itching. A knot in his gut, then the familiar tug. The one that the emperor’s grey eyes creates. The one he knows would lead him over a cliff in full battle array should it be demanded of him.

He looks from the mysteriously dead animal back to the forest. It looms in a way it hadn’t before. And even though the sun is out and the sky is pretty peri-winkle blue everything feels grey _. Uncertain._ Colder, for sure.

There are entrails on the ground. Intestines spilling out. Toppling over each other as if they had burst forth in eagerness to display the future. All that water, salt, iron – coloured red – on the formerly green ground. The dirt turning into bloody mud with those coils of former life, those death dealing snakes, lying limp upon damp earth.

Is it an omen?

Arthur does not believe in omens. Or stars or fate or any of that sort of business. Napoleon does, he knows. He figures that the emperor must. It is the only way to bear such painful iniquity as loss and exile with anything amounting to grace and while, perhaps, Napoleon is not exactly the epitome of grace-in-defeat he could be worse. He writes to Arthur of the stars, sometimes. Explains in a letter about how, as a boy, his father would speak about the fates of man being spread across the vaults of the heavens much the way there are entrails spread across lawn. Napoleon had written _se e scritta in cielo,_ if it be written in the sky, then does that not make the heavens the true bible of Corsica?

Arthur believes that if the emperor were to be autopsied they would find his blood is made of stardust and his matter whatever fine liniment it is that composes the ether in the skies. This is a belief he shares with no one for would it not be admitting he believes Bonaparte to be made of finer stuff than the average man? Even he cannot admit it fully to himself. That the man who upset God and the natural order and everything rational, civilized society _must_ stand for must therefore himself be bigger than that order and society. If, at least, in the most basic of levels. He wonders, if you break down the emperor to the soldier and from the soldier down through those impenetrable layers to the man who, at the end, he is truly, what would you find? He doesn’t know.

The former-emperor is all too much. The situation is all too much. _This_ is all too much.

Like the boar.

All too much.

‘This is not helping,’ he says to Charles. ‘Bonaparte hasn’t run off back to France. I’ll bet my cabinet position on it. He is here, in Woodford, somewhere.’

They both look to the forest. By unspoken agreement they take their silent leave, gather their mounts, and head over to the French.

 

 

Naturally, fear and sheer curiosity will combat over a man until he gives into one or the other. In this case, curiosity appears to have won the day.

 

 

The scene is thus: A crowd of officers and villagers is gathered in the front gardens and all exchanging information. They part as if they were the Red Sea when he and Charles make their inevitable appearance. Harriet is standing in the fore, beside the apparently suspicious looking valet. Snippets of over heard conversations tells Arthur that thus far, Bonaparte has been kidnapped by pirates, held for ransom by a band of (dashing) highway men, turned into a newt by a witch (he will hopefully recover), gone to the barrows of the dead anglo-lords and has now had his spirit wrested from his body, has run off to France to meet with Princess Caroline, has run off the France with the Duchess of Wellington, has run off to France with the local baker’s daughter, has fled to America to become king of Canada, and so on and so forth.

Amongst the throng of not-very-terrified looking villagers is young Hortense Bertrand wearing the emperor’s old coat from when he was first council and crying over the kite her father had made. Her brother Henri is snotty nosed and standing beside her using his sleeve as a handkerchief. They are small, unnoticeable except for the ill-fitting bright red coat of Hortense’s with its gold brocade. Arthur makes his way to them.

‘Have you found papa, yet?’ Hortense asks when he kneels down before them.

‘Not yet, but Charles and I will do our best.’

Hortense nods. She tugs Henri so he sits in her lap and soon he burrows his face into her shoulder and cries. Arthur thinks her too young for this, not yet eight years old and her brother a mere just-turned-seven. The littlest of the Bertrand children, baby Arthur, is only a year and a half and cheerfully unaware of the upset.

‘Papa’s horse came back this morning but he was not upon it.’

‘Do you know where it came from?’

She nods. Points over his shoulder to the woods. He figures he ought to have known. She explains that there were a few leaves caught in the saddle, which makes little sense, and it had no horseshoes.

‘No horseshoes?’

‘No, your grace, they were gone. The Comte de Montholon says that it looks as if they were taken by force and Monsieur Cipriani says that it was done by a foul creature neither human nor god.’

‘This Monsieur Cipriani is telling you tall tales.’

Hortense does not look convinced which, Arthur thinks, is to her credit. Henri turns about in his sister’s lap and declares that their emperor went off to rescue papa.

‘He wouldn’t leave papa to fight demons in a forest.’

‘No, I don’t think he would.’

Henri nods, gulps, then wails.

Arthur takes him up and says, ‘tell you what. Your sister has a dashing coat, if a little ill fitting. Would you like a dashing coat of your own?’

The boys calms himself and nods, uncertainly. They are walking towards Fanny who is in the back gardens away from the tumult of the front.

Arthur smiles, ‘I have a lovely red coat that I wore in India. You can have it if you like.’

Henri says he would very much. He is set down and walks to his mother.

‘Maman, his grace says I am to have a nice coat like Hortense’s from when he fought in India. Only, it shan’t be as nice as Hortense’s really for it is not the emperor’s.’

Bemused, Arthur comments, ‘they have their loyalties firmly in place.’

Henri receives a kiss from his mother before going back round to the front to find Hortense. By the river Flint tends to the bees who are buzzing in great agitation.

Fanny, noticing his attention, laughs, ‘They’re going to swarm!’ Then she is still, poised, solemn as a biblical king. Her eldest boy, a stout nine years old, and named for the missing emperor, plucks at her dress and scowls at Arthur and Charles.

‘They wouldn’t be gone if you had never come here,’ the boy declares. Fanny snaps back, opens her mouth to scold the young Napoleon but he leaves before she is able. Running from them, skirting around Arthur and bumping into Charles during his flight.

‘Children cannot understand,’ Fanny says with her expression apologetic.

Charles takes her hand, ‘Madame, sometimes they understand more than we give them credit for.’

‘All we know,’ Fanny explains, ‘is that Henri’s horse came back riderless and the emperor walked along the river towards the forest then, well Charles – Montholon – believes he turned onto drier ground for the footprints stop.’ She turns her face to the sky, breathes in deeply, then looks back to them. ‘They are in that cursed place. I know it. My Henri – and those that go in do not come out.’

‘Tosh,’ Charles is firm. ‘We’ve all been in there and we have all come out unscathed and so shall they. This is Grand Marshall General Bertrand and the former emperor of France, not some silly ensign who had only fluff between his ears. Arthur,’ he turns to his friend. ‘What say you and I and perhaps Montholon, if he be willing, take a look? There are a few hours of daylight left and you are a veritable magnet for Bonaparte. Anytime you show up in this county he is bound to be near by and vice versa. And as Bonaparte is most likely with your husband we shall solve everything.’

 

 

The trek to the woods is a popular decision and becomes a procession. A quarter, easily, of the village walks silently alongside Arthur, Charles and Montholon. They find silver bells being tied to the bridles. Iron nails into horses’ manes. Certain flowers handed up with insistence that they protect against evil — St. John's Wort, Angelica, dried lavender and marigolds, all tied together with a white ribbon. Arthur tucks the collection into a button hole and wonders how useful such things are, beyond fortifying the spirit. Mrs. Topsom, of course she walks with them, seems more at ease once they are properly decked out in such trinkets. Walking beside his horse she, in the most sombre mood he has ever seen her, says 'I remember when my grandmother put out milk for the fair folk so they would not take my brother and I away. There was a young boy who went missing when I was a girl, no more than eight, and he was never found. We thought he had fallen into the river.' Her eyes are set on the woods. 'Now, I am not so certain. Then there is Lady Georgiana.' She leaves off. Drops back into the steadily slowing and dwindling crowd. By a good three quarters before the Shrubbery truly starts the three would-be rescuers find themselves alone.

‘Armed?’ Charles asks, thinking it perhaps a little late to be inquiring. Arthur hands over a pistol and shot. ‘Cheers.’ Montholon indicates his own pistol and three lapse into silence.  

Charles cannot remember if silver bells attract or deter creatures. Iron was a certain deterrent, he did recall. As was salt and holy water. Too bad, he laments as they formally enter the wood, we are no longer Catholic in this country. Those sort always have a good supply of holy water on hand and seem to know how to deal with the devilish unknown far better than us Protestants. He puts this down to a 1500 year head start. Damn, dirty papists.

The path is narrow and so they are forced to go one at a time. Arthur leads for he is the better armed of the three and Charles tells Montholon that although his grace is a terrible shot, with a brace of pistols and a sword he is _bound_ to do _some_ damage. 

How is the forest so quiet? There are no birds. No wind. No animals at all. 

Even the rustling of the leaves, natural sounds of trees moving and shifting, is quiet. The men note the muted effect of the land. As if it were being smothered, all noise blotted out.

It is not long before they come to the cross road of the two main paths—decidedly smaller and more overgrown than it was a mere three days ago. Arthur thinks, We were here so recently, the two of us. Off the trail too and what did we see? Nothing unusual. Nothing untoward. How can it all have happened so quickly? 

Ahead, there is mist gathering. Piling upon itself, Arthur nudges his horse forward. A shape forms, a man on his knees, holding something. Boots, perhaps? Wearing not but shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and breeches. The mist clears. 

‘By Jove!’ Arthur exclaims.

Napoleon proceeds to fall face forward onto the road.

Charles, ‘Well I never! Castlereagh’s old ghost story has _nothing_ on this.’

Montholon, ‘Should we, um, pick him up off the road, do you think?’

 

 

 

Later: no one is sure of the time and Arthur has given up attempting to keep his watch in order. It currently sits upon Napoleon’s desk with both hands spinning in a steady counter clockwise fashion.

The emperor sits in a chair by the fire with drink in hand. He remains in the same clothes they found him in—that is, dressed excepting the lack of stockings, boots, riding coat, greatcoat, and hat.

 

 

The crowd had lingered in the garden but as sun set it inevitably dispersed, helped by the waning interest once it had become clear that the emperor was not going to make a grand statement about his adventures. To Fanny, once they were inside, he had only shaken his head and said that he was sorry. She had nodded, gathered the children, and retired upstairs.

Hortense whispered to Arthur, ‘you forgot my papa.’

‘I didn’t forget him, we will keep looking for him.’

She frowned but accepted the assurance and followed her mother up to bed.

 

 

The duke looks at his timepiece in disgust. He asks Charles how he can be so damnably calm about it all. The forest, the strange mist, disappearing (and now reappearing) men, the lack of working watches.

‘I find it easier to accept things as they come. Take my example, Arthur, and relax a little. Not everything in life will have a rational explanation.’

‘Pah!’

‘And, like me, you were born in Ireland. Surely you remember some of the lore and legends of the isle.’

‘Simply because one is born in a stable does not mean one is a horse.’

‘No, but one can still be an asshole,’ Napoleon mutters.

Charles and Arthur look over to the emperor who remains with eyes fixed to the fire although Arthur thinks he detects hints of a smile about the mouth.

‘Well met,’ Charles says as he strides across the room. Arthur follows with some reluctance. With all three seated in front of the fire an uneasy silence descends.

‘Your boots,’ Arthur begins. ‘What happened to them? Where did the nails go?’

Napoleon shrugs. The way of the horseshoes, most likely. 

‘And your coat? The grey one?’

‘No idea.’

‘What time did you leave?’

‘Early. It was still dark out.’ The emperor stands and moves towards the fire-place. He takes up the poker and jostles a log about.

‘Did you have anything else with you? Did you meet with Bertrand?’

A shake of the head. The poker is returned to its stand. Napoleon remains leaning against the mantel and looking into the flames. Arthur stands, takes the empty glass and refills it.

Napoleon, ‘what time is it?’

‘Difficult to say, given no one’s timepieces are working, but I would wager it being no later than seven.’

‘And the date?’

‘October 16. We found you around two in the afternoon I would say.’

A knock at the study door and Charles crosses the room to answer. Harriet is let in carrying a tray of food.

‘I thought you three would need something to eat. Dinner tonight has obviously been canceled. Word from Lowe is that the dinner tomorrow at Abelle Hall has also been canceled due to recent events.’ She lingers by Charles. Frowns at Arthur. ‘It is not safe for people to be abroad at night alone. Whatever is happening here, it seems to target those who are on their own.’

Charles agrees and says that perhaps an announcement should be made. If there isn’t a local Watch there ought to be.

They ponder over this before Harriet takes Charles’ hand, ‘we should head home. Leave everyone here in peace.’ She turns to Napoleon. ‘We will return to help continue the search for General Bertrand on the 'morrow and I am sure we can get some of Lowe’s men to aide. They don’t seem to be doing much, anyhow.’

Napoleon bows his head and murmurs a thank you. He pauses then adds, ‘I would like to have a word with your _gallant_ duke for a moment.’

Arthur sighs but agrees, Sure, he can stay for a while. It is early, yet.

Walking Harriet and Charles to the front he assures them that he will be fine on his trip home. If he must he will take a soldier along with him and the lad can stay the night at Woodford Hall. If not, there is an extra room here he is not unaccustomed to and knows he would be able to use. They say their goodnights and Arthur watches as the carriage pulls away. In the distance there is a tinkling of bells. Small ones, he knows, that are silver. Do they call the creatures to you or scare them off? There is no consensus on this. He wonders if those who tried to find out never came back.

 

 

‘When I was in the forest I could not tell if I was dreaming or if things were actually happening. I think I killed a boar and looked upon it and saw a man’s face. Did I ever tell of the _mazzeri_ of Corisca? I think I must have. Last time. They hunt in their dreams and foretell death. When they kill an animal and turn it over they can see the face of the victim, sometimes they hear the voice in the wind. Usually they hunt alone but they have been known to hunt in packs like wild dogs, killing with only tooth and nail.

'When they wake from this sleep they must go and find the person they have seen and tell them that their death has been foretold and within three days to a year they will meet their end. Did the _mazzeru_ kill them? I don’t know. It is both an act and a foretelling. The _mazzeri_ are at once passive witnesses and active participants of the entire situation.' A sigh. 'What I am saying is that I killed a boar and saw a man’s face.’

‘Who did you see?’

‘I don't know. I’ve never seen him before. And it was very feint. As if, his death was a long ways off yet close enough where it could be foretold. Or, perhaps it is a death that is uncertain.’

They are in their usual spot upon the floor in front of the fire with their backs propped up against the settee. The rest of the house is quiet, even the usually constant sounds of children running down halls above them has ceased. A clock chimes four. They both ignore it.

Napoleon turns his glass around in his hand, watches the liquid move in firelight. He says, ‘I think I saw Lady Georgiana.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, something that looked like her. She asked me something which I can’t recall exactly. And there was another one who looked like Ensign Linden, the first officer to go missing. It wasn’t him, Linden was shorter than I and this… _person_ was easily six foot, if not a little more.’

‘Did they say anything about Bertrand?’

‘No.’

They go back to contemplating their glasses. Arthur finds the fire very warm, the room in general, very warm. He thinks that perhaps the situation he is in is an unwise one but at the same time he cannot bring himself to leave and so instead he sits with a glass in his hand and a sour expression upon his face.

‘Do you really think me as charming as a clam?’

Napoleon looks over with a smile. It is a little one, but charming non-the-less. He gives a short shake of his head, ‘no. Well, sometimes. You do lack the ability to smooth over ruffled feathers.’

‘And you don’t?’

'And perhaps are you too stubborn on points.' 

'And you are not?'

‘We aren’t speaking of my hypothetical career as Prime Minister. Mayor, or whatever the title is here, of Woodford will do well enough.’

‘Mayor of Woodford! You’re being absurd.’

‘No! Absolutely serious. I do not jest, Wellesley. You should know me well enough that I barely even know what a joke is.’

Arthur rolls his eyes and grumbles under his breath. Napoleon stands, the smile bigger now and it changes the weather, Arthur swears. He returns carrying the decanter of brandy and pours them both a second glass.

‘Tell me about those silly Arthurian legends that you despise,’ Napoleon asks as he sits back down, adjusting blankets around himself as he does so.

‘Why?’

‘Curious.’

‘Well, as I am _sure_ I have told you before, the basic story is that Arthur was king of the Britons at some point in the in-determinant past, possibly pre-Roman, possibly post, and he, with his knights of the round table, unified the Britons and defended them against all sorts of evil creatures. Giants, dark knights, dragons and so on. At some point there is a quest for the holy grail, although it is never found. I believe his wife leaves him for Lancelot.’

‘A Frenchman!’

‘Yes, unfortunately. Shows Guinevere's questionable taste in men. Don’t make that face at me. I am obliging your strange desire for a children’s fairy tale.’

‘Have you been outside recently?’

‘Never you mind. Anyway, in the end Arthur is put to sleep and Merlin is captured in a tree, or maybe he turns into a tree, and the legend says that Arthur will re-awake when Britain needs him most. Now, I’m not sure what the exact criteria are for Britain being in danger for we have weathered multiple invasions, some more successful than others, various civil wars, rebellions, famine and pestilence and yet we have not seen this supposed once and future king.’

Napoleon snaps his fingers and sits up, jarring Arthur who almost drops his glass.

‘That’s it! That’s the phrase she used. “Once and future king”.’

‘Who?’

Those grey eyes are upon him entirely, only they are not completely grey. One, the left, looks as if India ink is dripping into the iris. Splashes of black against steel.

‘The women who was not-Georgiana. She said that there was a way of bringing something back, I can’t recall what she wanted to return, but she said that in order to do so the once and future king would have to return.’ He stops. His expression clears, becomes very still. He remains staring at Arthur, or perhaps through, the duke. ‘She asked about you. She said that there was a current hero of England born on May day whose name was Arthur.’

Arthur snarls, ‘no!’

Napoleon says, ‘I can’t remember what I said but I think I laughed at her.’

'This cannot be real. You are making this up.’

'Why would I make it up? She did ask for you and I laughed.’

Arthur laughs. It is hoarse and wild then he stops, puts his hand against Napoleon’s face. He feels the emperor freeze underneath the touch, turning so light reflects he says, ‘there’s something in your eye.’

‘Is there?’

‘It looks like ink.’

Letting go of his face Arthur stands and finds the food tray and brings it over, holds it up as a mirror. Napoleon leans in, inspects one eye then the other. Idly traces a finger over his cheek from corner of his eye to his jaw. He whispers that he cannot recall what happened. All he remembers is the boar and the non-Georgiana asking about King Arthur and laughing at the insinuation. Nothing else. Nothing about the nails from his boots being ripped out or the loss of his coats and hat and his pocket watch and notebook. He says, I killed a boar and laughed at a fairy wearing someone else’s skin. I think I might leave this part out of my memoir.

 

 

They part ways hours later with Arthur calling Napoleon a dirty Whig and Napoleon informing Arthur that he is wrong, since he, Napoleon is neither a Whig nor a Tory, but Arthur most certainly is a scurrilous Tory and probably a, how do you say it, a _cur_. Arthur laughs. Of all the English you are learning, you picked up the words ‘scurrilous Tory’ and ‘cur’.

The emperor grabs Arthur’s arm before he leaves the room, ‘you are staying here, correct? There’s a spare room.’

‘Of course. It’s too late to go home and even though I am still tempted to say that there is a rational explanation for everything, I am not confident enough to tempt fate.’

‘Intelligent decision. I will bid you good night, then. Friends?’

‘Sure. Though don’t let Liverpool hear you call me that.’

‘Not for the world.’

Arthur makes his way to the room, following after the servant who puts a warming pan at the foot of the bed and stokes the fire. A fresh pitcher of water is brought in and Arthur takes stock of the room. A few spare books on the desk by the window. One on gardening in England, a copy of Pliny’s _Lives_ , and a rather beaten prayer book. Arthur takes Pliny to bed with him and does his best to ignore the feeling that he is being watched. When he dreams it is of the ocean and the waves are black, like ink. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales and more searches through the Shrubbery.

There are a thousand and one stories of King Arthur and his noble knights of the round table. Tales of giants being slain, evil vanquished, an unknown land being made known through fable and legend. A recreation of lost memory of—of what? A Roman Centurian who became more Celt than Roman? A Celtic king uniting a fractured people to push back the invaders—before or after Boudica? A Saxon lord who Christianized the land?

And what of Arthur himself? Man? God? Fairy? King? Solider? Commoner?

He pulled a sword from a stone. Or, perhaps, it was bestowed upon him by a water nymph, a lady of the lake, funny then that his downfall should be made possible by a man also of a lake. Regardless, the sword made him king one way or another. But what had he been before? The majestic rulers of England who had long emulated Arthur, did they not find that question a sticking point? Would that not make a certain emperor’s life more akin to the fabled Arthur’s than the man currently holding his name?

Arthur, bear, there is a constellation in the heavens which has no relation to the sleeping king but it crosses the skies and perhaps foretells destiny if one believes such things.

Was Arthur a heathen pagan? Christian? Neither? Both? A hybrid Celtic-Roman Commoner-King for this newly forged hybrid land composed of tribes who all hate each other, sometimes more than the foreigners that wash up against their salt ridden chalky shores.

When the Romans came—sometimes the Duke dreams of the myriad conquerings. He puts it down to his night cap, the horrors of his aborted Eatonian education, and his shared loved of all things Classical with a certain general.

When the Romans came—Originally, there was Caesar. Godlike and warlike and fully deserving of his divine heritage and so much beyond his Rubicon and the back waters of Gaul that it hurt. He was blithe and ambitious and knew how to turn an advantage. When he came to this isle he found his die being cast to an ill fated number and his men washed upon the shores and cliffs like fleeting, scarcely felt waves.

The Romans, though, are like water and water is one of the strongest, most corrosive elements in the world. It tears through countryside, moulds marble and lime and granite, shifts the un-shiftable. Tyrants come and go. Dictators rise and fall. Water remains – steady and constant – through all.

Caesar left the island.

But Rome is a tide. Tides always return, sometimes higher than before, sometimes lower, but always, always do they return.

Arthur moves forward in his personal narrative of this history. Past funeral pyres and civil war to an empire. To cabbages and kings—more on point—horses and senators.

Londinium had been founded and served as a small mercantile village-cum-town for the sort of client/tribute relationship that the Britons sort of had with Rome. Sort of. Regardless, Londinium was a foothold for Rome and allowed them to push inevitably north.

All soldiers being the same, at night Arthur thinks that they must have dreamt of where they came from. Those course Etruscan hills, the living marble of Rome. Perhaps some dreamt of their future and so the lush, bold highlands, open skies and cold air.

Being creatures of habit they maintained tunics and togas and sandals – the more inventive added woolly socks underneath their sandals.  Generally, they were advised to not submit to the fashion of the barbarians. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Including the terrible winter storms that beat against the island shores.

Once, before any major inroads had been made into the barren marshland of Brittania, a legion was on route to Germania to help Tiberius’ reinforcements. Due to bad weather and questionable navigation they landed on the coast of Britannia. When they arrived in Germania, well past when they were supposed to, they told stories of fantastical beasts. Of creatures unimaginable and a people so terrifying they cannot be understood or comprehended.

One man said that they had seen a large creature, big and hairy like a bear but who made noises, strange noises, not bear-like noises. It sounded like an insect and sometimes its eyes—well. When they inquired to the creature’s name they were told that the locals knew not where it came from but that they called it Grendel.

Tiberius had laughed. Told them not to tell tall tales and believe what the barbarians say.

North of Londinium, in what later would be known as the Midlands, is a flat expanse. In Caligula and Claudius’ day the major tribes were the Catuvellauni and the Trinovantes. They usually were at war with each other more than with the Romans. The Brigantes and Iceni watched and waited.

By Claudius’ reign the Catuvellauni had replaced the Trinovantes as the most powerful tribe in the region. Two brothers, brave and reckless, Togodumnus and Caratacus waged rebellious war against the Romans.

This was a time for forging names and losing stars. Emperor Claudius sent his best man, Aulus Plautius, to head the forces. His was, in turn, aided by the future emperor Vespasian of the II Augusta. Also with them was the IX Hispania—at this time known for its glorious conduct in Hispania and successes in Gaul. Hadrian’s Wall was not yet built. The IX Hispania was not yet a legend.

The Britons and the Romans met in battle along muddy Thames. Togodomnus lost his life. When he died he realized that he hadn’t said farewell to his family. He had only said, I’ll be back. He had considered himself an honest man and here, the last action in his life, was a lie.

Caratacus was captured. Then he escaped. He took his brother’s cloak with him. He hoped they would bury him honourably. He hoped they would treat him with respect.

The last Aulus saw of Caratacus was a retreating back swallowed by marshland fog.

‘He’ll be back,’ Vespasian predicted later that night.

'Gods above they never stop.’ Aulus replied.

Now to follow a future emperor for a moment because this land was full of future emperors and is full of former emperors and what is Britain without an emperor?

Vespasian traveled north to Exeter but no more. The land was rolling hills and thick fog and deep forests. To Aulus he wrote that he could not know nor understand what blood lurks here in the men who inhabit this wilderness. He could not understand this city-less wild here, at Earth’s end.

Out loud, to wind and harsh sun, he said, I am no Gaius Julius. I cannot push and push till there is nothing left and use the shattered remnants of what I have done to shore against my ruin.   

Vespasian eventually left.

No man would hold up his bloodied cloak and declare the dogs of war to be let loose. No man would hold up his bloodied body and count the wounds to a savage audience and declare his murderers  _honourable_ in order to secure their deaths. No man would do to him what was done to the generals of Britannia in the past.

Vespasian was gone. Aulus was gone. The shade of Caesar lingered on the shores, lingers still. Arthur sometimes thinks he sees it on old Roman roads. Watching with dead dog eyes.

But, even beyond the shades of the dead, the Romans remained. By 48 AD they controlled the south-east. They tamed estuaries, built aqueducts and bathhouses and theatres and roads. Of course roads. They carved their roads and their myths and their language and culture and faith into the geography of the earth, into the geography of the people. In the future it would be the Trojans who founded the isles and the stories would tell of how they mated with demons to achieve this end. The same as how the Trojans founded Rome, with lingering beastly wolf-children lore hovering heavy.

A governor was eventually appointed, Publius Ostorius Scapula, and he began an ill-fated campaign against Wales and the Cheshire gap. In the ever problematic north-east the Iceni were stripped of their weapons causing a rebellion. In Wales the Silunes were menacing, fierce, and willing to meet Roman legionaries tooth for tooth.

Gods, Scapula thought as he died with blade in hand, is this to be the fate of our mighty empire? To be defeated by such a little island? Such a little thing?

 

What point is there to this history lesson? Beyond to prove that Arthur of Legend is just that—the fable of a conquered myriad of people who wished to point to a person and be able to say ‘Look, once, we too were great. Look, once, we too stood on top of the world. And perhaps we may again for of course our King, unlike your emperors and councilors and dictators-for-life, is not dead, merely sleeping’.

None of this, of course, can explain the Shrubbery and Napoleon, self-appointed and self-crowned heir and inheritor to all of those dead Franks and Gauls and Romans, who probably pulled a sword out of a stone for reasons of personal propaganda, and who is currently staring at Arthur with one grey and one black eye for the night’s sleep had done _nothing_ to remedy _that._ Oh all of it is to say that none of his history lessons explained the present.

‘You don’t like the Romans.’ Napoleon says when Arthur has finished.

‘You read me wrong. I quite like the Romans. I just think they sent more fools than sensible men to Britain.’

‘I think you have this situation grasped in an ill mannered fashion.’

‘Pass the jam. No the strawberry. I hate marmalade. You know that. Don’t smirk this is a serious situation and I beg of you to attend to it as such. Madame, is he always like this?’

Albine raises an eyebrow and sips her tea. Montholon does the same as his wife.

Arthur gives up, turns back to Napoleon. What do you mean, monsieur, by your assertion of my grasp of this situation being ill mannered?

Napoleon points with his fork, Arthur scowls. ‘I mean that you assume it to be logical. You have always done so. Even during the Lady Georgiana incident in March. You assume that you will be able to pluck a string from the metaphorical ball of history and trace to the present and you will be able to hold it up as aha! the answer. And if it is not the answer, then a significant clue. My left eye looks like Indian ink and Bertrand is still missing. I am very put out about this. Please explain _that_ to me with your history of Britain as enlightening as the discourse was.’

‘Stop pointing with your fork it’s rude.’

Napoleon jabs it again in the general direction of Arthur. His face changes, though, and he lets the fork clatter onto his plate. Abruptly, the emperor stands and declares that he is finished with breakfast and will be outside should anyone need him. Arthur looks down to his half finished meal.

Albine, languidly from behind a day old morning post, ‘don’t rush yourself. It drives him mad that everyone takes longer than he does to eat.’

‘He is a very strange man, isn’t he?’

Montholon, ‘your grace, you have _no_ idea.’

Arthur smirks, settles in for a long breakfast.

 

‘You have got to be one of the rudest men of my acquaintance.’

Napoleon is tending to his bees. He doesn’t turn around. Arthur crosses his arms and waits at a safe distance.

‘They appear as if they want to swarm.’ Napoleon turns to face the duke. Lifts the protective veil so he can see clearly. ‘This is very concerning.’

‘As concerning as your missing friend and discoloured eye?’

‘Certainly. Come, we will talk.’

‘Leaving breakfast before it is done!’

'Still on that, are you? I always understood it to be a casual meal.’

‘Not _that_ casual. You leave dinner half way as well.’

‘I don’t expect anyone else to. I merely become bored of food and see no reason to prolong my discomfort.’ Napoleon takes Arthur’s arm and leads him from the buzzing hives. The day is a cool, low grey one with the hint of rain in the air. They turn towards the herb beds which lie empty baring a few wrapped plants. ‘We should meet up with the old misery and see if we cannot form a search party. I would not say no to help from the multiple spare officers I know he has at the hall.’

‘You are eager to go back there even after yesterday’s events?’

‘Eager is not how I would describe it. But it is necessary for so long as Henri is there I, at least, will be looking for him.’

This is reasonable and Arthur cannot fault him. Turning back towards the house Napoleon says, ‘I cannot be the rudest man of your acquaintance.’

Arthur begs to differ. He has a handful of examples. He says that this is merely the beginning of a long list. Napoleon points out that half of them are hearsay that Arthur has garnered from other people and surely such an assessment should be based on a man’s personal observations. Arthur declares he has plenty of those as well. Napoleon laughs. It appears suggestive. Arthur begs him not to drag their conversation into the territory of indecent. Napoleon says he is doing no such thing. The argument ends only with their arrival at Abelle Hall with a very annoyed looking Montholon lagging behind.

 

 -

  

Napoleon had once written to his brother:

> ‘As for me, little attached to life, contemplating it without much solicitude, constantly in the state of mind in which one is on the day before a battle, feeling that, while death is always amongst us to put an end to all, anxiety is folly everything joins to make me defy fortune and fate: in time I shall not get out of the way when a carriage comes. I sometimes wonder at my own state of mind’.

This feeling, which like all feelings he understands best when in context of war for his entire life has been lived amongst, between, in front of and behind one, comes back to him in fits and peaks of momentary dullness when there is little feeling in him for the day. He will sit by the study window and watch as the Bertrand and Montholon children make merry in the garden, as Flint tends to the bees and the sheep, as Fanny and Albine bicker by the roses. And he will feel what? He cannot say for there isn’t much there during such days.

Waking this dreary October morning had given rise to such a dullness and though he spends the day making the best of an intolerable situation so that he jests with Wellesley and Montholon, he cannot be entertained. He thinks maybe he should have taken his own advice at the bright age of twenty-five and not stepped aside for a carriage. After his letter to Joseph he had gone down to the streets and stared at the passing masses waiting for one of the right size and speed to do the trick. None had arrived and then Junot had found him and he had been carted off to the Assembly. It had passed. These moods tend to, he finds.

As for the present day he found it had come with the morning but only worsened with the fruitless search. They passed through the woods in carefully thought out quadrants with sets of men in twos and threes taking each section. Hours spent thus. What had they found? A boot. English make. Probably belonging to one of the missing soldiers. The delicate chain of a necklace clearly having rested in the soil for some duration. Various bottles and signs of men having drank and gamed in the woods which was of no surprise. A pistol. This, at least, was something. It was Austrian make and while there were plenty of military men in the vicinity who could have come into possession of such a weapon during their career Napoleon felt it familiar. It brought to mind Bertrand laughing at his inability to shoot when they went hunting. Not that pistols were involved in those exercises but that was the memory that came with it regardless.

Other than those few paltry pieces of proof of human existence in the vast expanse that the Shrubbery is becoming the search turns up nothing of use. They give up with the setting sun and make plans to attempt again the next day.

 

 

Tracing over the fine metal work, as they rest in the garden with candles and lanterns out for light, there are other memories. Bertrand in Italy teaching him the best way to shoot the moon when playing cards against Berthier. Bertrand’s confusion anytime he and Joseph went into their brotherly jokes and fights that no one understood but them and perhaps Lucien. The steadiness of presence. The surety of loyalty. And no, Napoleon owns, Henri is the not the brightest of his generals – more like Murat but without the flair – and his conversation is often uninspired, but he is an old friend and a loyal friend and as close to the goodness of France that he has left.

As close to the glad aspects of those memories of France. The fetes and assemblies and his inability to play billiards with any talent but Bertrand allowing him to win and then his own annoyance at this and ordering Bertrand to play fairly and then finding himself losing every single game for the rest of the evening. As close to everything about France that made his heart light and his eyes burn and his chest clench and made everything around him feel _wrong._ As close to everything in life that he had ever loved or worked for or tried to do. Unlike Montholon and Albine and Wellesley, Henri does not remind him of the loss.

Fanny enters the gardens and takes a seat with him. The others are elsewhere with Lowe conferring about setting up a regular night watch while such events continue. Montholon for something to do, Arthur in order to avoid Napoleon, Charles out of duty and care for this town that is his and yet is not, Harriet for she is never far from the action.

Fanny decompresses when she sees the pistol. It is Bertrand’s for certain, then.

‘Where did you find it?’ She asks, taking it in hand.

‘Nowhere in particular. Off the path, beside an elm tree or what his grace is seventy per-cent sure is an elm tree.’

She traces the same patterns he had traced. Her fingers find the trigger, the frizzen, the flint, down the barrel and she turns it over and over in her hand looking at it or perhaps past it, past her dress, past her feet just peeking out from the gown to the grass and beyond the grass the to the dirt and mud below. She swallows. The pistol is rotating in hand. It feels cold to her touch. She wonders how anyone can stand this waiting. Even when Henri had gone to war she had never questioned his return. Had never allowed herself to question it. She remembers Josephine once saying that she could drive herself to distraction if she thought about the battlefield for too long. Because if their husbands were dead, if their husbands didn’t come home then what becomes of the empire? What becomes of their future? Everything felt not unlike a cord strung tight but so tight it will break if the least amount of pressure were applied. Snap! Then it flies off and falls and where are they then but falling with it and landing in a heap of broken remains.

But the empire is over now and men are dead and gone and she knows that there are names rarely spoken by their group. Murat, Ney, Lannes, Duroc — Henri had once said that they could make a list of the dead and it would wrap itself around this earth twice but then they would be smothered beneath it and what is the point of that?

She feels adrift on the best of days. Right now? There are waves above her head, striking and huge, large enough to see the fish and creatures of the sea swimming through them. They are crashing over her head. She does not know what to think let alone tell her children.

In her hand is a pistol that her husband had held, that the man who was emperor but now just a general and who she loves and hates and respects and despises and admires and wishes were dead had held. And now she holds it. One day her son will.

She sets it on a small table which is between her and Napoleon.

The empire is dead and gone and disappeared. But they are still here. She isn’t sure how that works when it is so obvious that they all _were_ and _are_ the empire and so if they exist then surely it does.

‘I miss him.’ She says.

‘I know. I do, too.’

They rest in silence until the candles burn down and it is too cold to remain outside.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How much Tam Lin is too much Tam Lin? I was informed that there is no limit.

Sunday is gloomy, the ill weather from the previous days remaining. The rector is listless and his congregation uncertain. The sermon, uninspired and an abuse to the poetry of the scripture it was based upon. Revelations is a work of art that forces attention upon itself. It should steal a person’s breath away, haunt with twisted images, mawkish mimicry created in the mad imagining that only the End of Days can evoke.

Batley, young, nervous, inexperienced, cannot do it justice. Arthur thinks, You cannot know what it is to see death upon a pale horse and know, _know,_ that hell followeth. You cannot know what it is to see the rider of Revelations upon a white steed with crown and sword and conquering and conquering and conquering with war, hunger, disease, for all such things follow an army. I have stood upon a battle field and there was blood upon my boots and breeches and I saw the craven bearer of End Times with mine own eyes and he laughed because this is an endless thing and maybe one day the stars of heaven will fall unto the earth ending all lives and thoughts of fate and destiny and perhaps the moon will become blood and the sun black and we will all hide in the mountains from terror even as they fall, tumble, crumble and collapse down upon us but that is not now and how can one who has never left the safety of Cambridge know what wrath and fear are and claim to speak with authority on the subject of disease and war?

Harriet touches his arm, he nods. He returns to the dripping sound outside of rain arriving. The feeling of firm, dusty stone underfoot. The weight of Harriet’s hand on his arm. The sound of Charles thumbing the pages of the hymnal. His heart is beating so loud he feels as if the Woodford church building must have one of its own. Perhaps hidden in the columns. It would not surprise him if it did for indeed is not stone alive in its own way? Even after is has long been hewn and fashioned?

 

 

Batley, shaking hands and calming worried parishioners, cannot be more than nine-and-twenty. He is flustered by the Arbuthnots and Wellesley’s presence.

‘I am honoured you chose St. Mary’s, your lordship, ladyship, your grace. I had heard St. Andrew’s in Cranford was your usual preference.’

Charles smiles, ‘it is, reverend. But only because it is a little closer. We have filthy city habits and rise late, you see.’

‘Early by the standards of London.’ Harriet amends.

Batley laughs and says he is understanding. It was a shock after Cambridge to adjust to the non-academic mode of life. But make shift we all must, there is a time for all things, after all.

‘This your first benefice?’ Charles asks.

‘Indeed, my lord.’

‘Oh poor you! What a time to come to Woodford and here we usually are such a quite, peaceful, _normal_ place. This spell has been unusual to say the least. You’re making a fair fist of it, though.’

The young man’s face beams. He says he hardly knows what to write to the bishop as it stands. Devilry! Here in England! This isn’t the colonies, after all. One cannot just go and have a witch hunt or something equally provincial.

‘Quite right! Rational thinking will be the best decision in the end. Tell me, reverend, are you free this afternoon?’

‘I believe so, my lord.’

‘Capital! Come ‘round to the French encampment for tea and scandal. We will be returning no later than four from our daily search for the poor missing souls in the forest so let us say half four?’

Batley falters, Aren’t they Catholic? And surely it would not be wise to associate with the scourge of Europe more than necessary?    

‘Look,’ Charles leads Batley away from the door and Mrs. Topsom’s over eager gathering of Ladies Who Tea. ‘I believe it will be either the evil bogeyman of your childhood (although you do not appear _that_ young), or Mrs. Topsom’s tea-in-the-parlour with the marriage committee. It’s seven other women, five of whom will happen to be single. The other two will have available daughters or nieces.’

The reverend shifts and clenches his jaw. He wishes for neither, sir! He confesses that he only wants to return to his room to finish his monograph on Fordyce’s sermons but it is not looking that it will happen, is it?

‘I rather think not.’

‘All right. I’ll suffer the _other lot_ for an afternoon. Anything is better than the natterings of Mrs. Topsom. What is it, my lord?’

‘Nothing. Merely, you’ve never seen his grace and the general in the same room together, have you?’

 

 

What is magic?

The question occupies Napoleon’s thoughts as they ready the horses after breakfast.

He remembers his mother saying, when he had been young, that it is something that is old and should not be tampered with and he had been impertinent and had asked how she could believe in magic and ghosts and superstitions of Corsica but still believe in the trinity, the pentacost, the miracle of Christ. He had gone further, had said that if one wants to, he supposed one could argue that all religion is magic. This had earned a sharp rebuke, a slap across the head.

‘You have been confirmed, you know your creed, Nabulione di Carlo di Buonaparte, you know better than this.’

But it is ever the nature of Corsica to be contradictory, he knows.

His mother had never answered the question directly. Even when he inquired years later and more respectfully. He had asked, Is it true you made a deal to ensure my life when you were carrying me? She had replied, Where did you hear such nonsense? He had said, From Uncle Fesche. She had pursed her lips, closed her prayer book and looked at him carefully. Sometimes, she spoke slowly, you must do things for your family that you would not think to do at any other time. From his mother, this was as close to an admission as he was ever going to receive.

He shares a memory with the duke when Arthur rides to meet them: we needed rain. It hadn’t rained in months, I was on leave from the army, and spending my idle time reading about the ancients. Ceasar, Vespasian, Trajan. My mother took me with her to an old site with these rings of stone heads, a fair distance from Ajaccio, and she found a large mound not far from the sculptures which are ancient. Older, I think, than the Roman Empire. She told me to dig at a certain point and after a while I found it was a grave. Beads, pottery shards, bits of shells and the usual things pagans were buried with. We found a skull and once ascertaining that it was in good condition, took it up, and went to a certain river and placed it in the water in an area where it would not wash away so quickly. She told me to gather up some stones and while my back was to her I could hear her chanting something but I was not close enough to catch what she was saying.

So your mother is a witch, is Arthur’s understanding of the situation.

‘No, but she made rain. Anyone can make rain in Corsica if you know about the skull trick. She was not one of the _benandanti_ nor was she a _streie_. There is magic in Corsica but it is not confined to the use of only certain people.’

‘And creatures? Such as we are experiencing in the forest?’

‘Perhaps. There were faie, certainly. Water nymphs who lived in caves along river beds. They have to be pleased or else rivers will run dry. Sometimes they drown children as a sort of tithe. There are some strange creatures by the old stone sculptures, then the giants of course.’  

‘Giants!’ Arthur cannot help it, the imagination takes hold.

‘Oh yes. They lived near what is now Bonifacio. Then there are the devil’s cliffs near Piana.’

‘I suppose one must think of it as a sort of power, magic. From what? The earth? God? The devil?’ Arthur mulls on it, he knows there are books of theology on the subject and Charles had suggested the previous night that perhaps they should search out the old medieval grimoires that lurk in the dustier corners of Abelle Hall. He had been taught, of course, that magic was at best not real and at worst un-English. He had lumped it together with things like confession, exorcism, saintly miracles, and other Catholic superstitions. When he had been in Spain he had been taken to see a miraculous image. He had been told that the Virgin wept blood during the Mass of the Assumption and on Easter Sunday. There had been no device he could discern that would allow for the simulation of the weeping of blood and as they had moved on from the village well before the Assumption and were too late for Easter he had never been able to witness it. He asks Napoleon if he had ever seen an activated image.

‘Weeping virgins and Christ’s wounds made flesh from wood?’

‘Yes, that sort of thing.’

‘No, but I’ve seen things that were supposed to be miraculous.’ A sly smile. ‘Perhaps I am not worthy, I have been told that I am not the holiest of men. Although I would think that the people who need the miracle most are men like me.’

Even with the gradual shift in England, Arthur notices, of taking on more traditional elements of faith – the Oxford movement comes to mind – there remains that distinct understanding that magic is – what? Of no place in the modern world, that is certain. Science! That is the way of the future. Looking forward to an ordered, rational and Godly society is the only means of progress. Not back to the wilds of medieval Europe with chaos and uncertainty (and popery).

He knows science, natural philosophy, had long been associated with magic but they were in enlightened times now. It is 1818, for God’ sake. They are living in the future, so to speak. There is talk of machines that will do math for you that will be able to solve complex computations in half the time it takes a person. There is a feeling in the air of excitement and change, a charge – it’s almost tangible. Despite, even, the recent wars and drought and the years of no summer, progress in inevitable.

And now, here is magic. Here is a forest that is constantly expanding. Here is a former emperor with an eye that is changing colours whose gaze is now disconcerting as much as it is arresting. Here are creatures that apparently wear the skin of their victims. Here is talk of witchcraft and demons. Here is the upside down, dark, wilderness filled world of the medieval era. Here is the chaos that King Arthur, false unreal king, would have known.

‘Do you think magic can be controlled?’ Arthur asks. They are entering the forest. The air becomes heavy.

‘I have no idea. Hopefully.’

They lapse into silence. The darkness of the woods begs it of them.

 

 

The search proves to be as fruitless this gloomy Sunday as it was the previous two days. If not more so, for they do not even find a scrap of fabric or a button or a strand of hair. The only change Arthur marks is that their footprints from the previous day have gone. The forest itself has shifted again. Rocks, branches, logs have rearranged themselves. Even the elm tree by which they found Bertrand’s pistol has disappeared itself elsewhere. The only stationary aspects of the forest, for a given value of stationary, are the bisecting roads. Though, they are little more than hunting paths now. And, of course, the stream which runs through it all. That, too, remains unaltered.

Standing by the edge of the water Montholon tosses stones, curses the island that holds him captive. That wraps its thin, tree lined, stone-wall defined fingers around himself, his family, his friends, his emperor. How can one small place be so grasping, so destructive and wanton? The stones sink to the bottom of the river, tumble along, vanish from sight. He toys with the old river paradox – is this the same river that runs by their land? On a map, yes it connects with the Nene and so therefore its waters blend into those of larger river. But, he thinks, at the same time it cannot be for obviously the water as it is now is different from that which is behind the emperor’s bee hives and besides, it joins _with_ Nene and so therefore is no longer whatever this stream is but something bigger and greater.

His name is called, looking up he sees Napoleon, the duke and Layton waiting for him. The rest of the day is as productive and as groundbreaking as his thoughts. They return tired, hungry, disgruntled.

 

 

Tea and Scandal turns into a visit from Doctor Philips and his wife Mary and an uncomfortable monologue on Fordyce’s sermons by Batley. When Batley pauses for breath Albine interjects that perhaps they should take a moment for some music. To break up the endless melancholy. She takes to the pianoforte and trots out a tune before requesting suggestions. A few names are put out with Albine picking a piece by Bach to play.

Arthur, leaning by the window, watches as Dr. Philips moves to the emperor and, after an exchange of words, takes a seat. A moment passes then the emperor’s impassive face turns to a frown, his finger tips meet as he curls his hands around his cup of chocolate. Dr. Philips leans in, is emphatic about something. The duke cannot help but think that the man has lost weight since the last time they saw each other; disturbingly so. Mary does not look much better as she hovers in the corner with Fanny. Their heads are bowed in mutual commiseration.

‘Well,’ Harriet crosses to him. ‘This is a thing. I was hoping for more scandal and less tea. Perhaps if we gave everyone a stiffener in their Darjeeling.’

‘Don’t be crass.’

‘I can see the hint of a repressed smile Arthur Wellesley. You agree with me.’

‘In theory.’

Albine, bored with playing, asks, ‘how about a ghost story. It is the season and we’re all here.’

Fanny, looking to the rector, ‘I hope you do not mind.’

‘It’s only a story, madame. So long as we’re not actively summoning anything.’

Harriet, ‘we should read something. Perhaps by Scott! He is fitting for such a gloomy day as this.’ Arthur interjects – No! Anything but Scott.

Napoleon suggests _Ossian_. He turns to Mary, ‘You’ve been to Scotland, madame, do you know if they have resolved the issue of Macpherson?’

She laughs, says she is not certain for she was not there for recreation if his majesty will recall. He nods, ‘Right, of course, I suppose _Ossian_ was not of top priority.’ But it is said in a manner to suggest he found that to be a dubious case.

‘Not _Ossian,_ ’ Montholon groans. ‘Anything but _Ossian._ We read it twice last month. And anyhow, it’s not a ghost story.’

‘No, but it’s good.’

Arthur murmurs to Harriet, ‘the general had his head filled Ossian dreams if I am not mistaken.’ Harriet tells him to hush. Arthur can feel the inevitable pair of grey eyes on him – or grey-black eyes, now – on him. Ossian dreams, indeed, he thinks. He moves away from the window, the cold of the glass having seeped through his coat. He joins the group by the fire.

Napoleon wants to know if they have a translation of the new Frankenstein novel that was published earlier in the year. No, Albine says, not yet. Only in English but I can tell you the plot for I’ve read it.

‘No!’ Napoleon shakes his head. ‘I want to read it and you will not tell me a single thing about it before hand only – is it very frightening?’

‘I read it straight through, sire, and my hair stood up on end the entire time.’

This satisfies the emperor and he says he cares not what they read so long as it is entertaining.

Scott is returned to, or perhaps an excerpt from _The Monk_. Batley is horrified at the suggestion – ‘Fie, dear ladies! Not that work. Please, for the sake your own peace of mind and spiritual happiness.’

Albine makes to protest but Harriet overrides her, ‘the only person here protesting Scott is his grace and he is a good enough man to weather it if we decide upon which poem we want.’

‘Waterloo?’ Arthur suggestions. Napoleon snorts, says he read the piece and it was as about as dreadful as some of his generals’ performances on the day in question. ‘No,’ Arthur agrees. ‘I couldn’t abide it either.’

They dither for another few minutes before Albine, with frustration and resolution in equal turns, stands and declares that _she_ will choose for she knows that in this group, with such people, no decision will be made without some firmness of spirit. She goes to the wall where a selection of books are available and peruses them before a clear ‘aha!’ and she takes a volume down.

Everyone is encouraged to make themselves comfortable and gather close around the fire. Food is brought in, cold cuts and fruit and cheese, as it seems an ill time for a formal dinner. Arthur is reminded of the dinner in March with the tales of ghosts and creatures. He glances out the window, wills there to be nothing – only rain and reflection of fire light. The day is darkening into night and he wonders if there will be enough space for everyone as curfew is encouraged, although yet to be enforced, and it looks as if most will be staying the night.

 Albine opens to a marked page, takes a candle to her side and begins:

‘O I forbid you, maidens all, That wear gowd on your hair, To come or gae by Carterhaugh, For young Tam Lin is there.

‘There's nane that gaes by Carterhaugh, But they leave him a wad, Either their rings, or green mantles, Or else their maidenhead.

‘Janet has kilted her green kirtle A little aboon her knee, And she has broded her yellow hair A little aboon her bree, And she's away to Carterhaugh As fast as she can hie.’

Albine’s voice is soothing, blanketing and Arthur finds himself drifting and thinking that perhaps this is _too_ on point and he should have been more eager for Scott. Dreary highland romances are better than Fanny’s pale face and the listless disinterest of the emperor. Mary’s expression is one of interest and perhaps something about her mouth suggests a smile. A nod here and there, when Janet plucks a rose and Tam Lin asks her how she comes to these woods without his command. Then another one later when Janet goes with child and ‘If that I gae wi child, father, Myself maun bear the blame, There’s neer a laird about your hall, shall get the bairn’s name.’

Napoleon stands as Janet waxes poetic about the steed of her true love being lighter than the wind and makes his way towards Arthur and the fire. The emperor-general nudges fallen embers, the go bright red, fade again to soft yellow and orange. He leans against the mantel with his arm above his head and a meditative expression. At least, Arthur thinks, it is not _bland._ The one he wore briefly, those minutes ago, disturbs the duke. He thinks it unusual for those eyes to be so blank.

‘Classic Albine,’ Napoleon murmurs when he catches Arthur’s gaze. ‘Picks the one piece that will cause the most discomfort in the room.’

Mary takes the book from Albine to read the last half of the tale. Her face is a pale pallor in the candlelight. Harriet can feel the air shift. A pressure builds. She remembers Kitty, once, standing by a fire with a bundle in her arms. Then the bundle had gone and the room had been very hot and they were washing bloody sheets. Mary had been lying senseless in bed. She looks out the window. She curses her husband’s family for having chosen Woodford as their seat. Mary reads, ‘The Queen o' Fairies she caught me, In yon green hill do dwell.

‘And pleasant is the fairy land, But, an eerie tale to tell, Ay at the end of seven years, We pay a tithe to hell, I am so fair and full o’ flesh, I'm feared it be myself.

‘But the night is Halloween, lady, The morn is Hallowday, Then win me, win me, an ye will, For weel I wat ye may.

‘Just at the mark and midnight hour, The fairy folk will ride, And they that would their true-love win, At Miles Cross they maun bide.’

The heat in the room grows, Arthur thinks that perhaps a window should be opened. Who knew a single fire could warm a place so. Napoleon shakes his head, no.

A low roll of thunder interrupts the reading. What is happening in the story but Janet is waiting at the cross roads for the fairy court to ride. What does she have with her? Nothing but her green mantle which she must throw around her lover after she pulls him off his horse lest he be cast down into hell. And who was it who linked the fairy court with hell and the dualism of Christianity? It is uncertain. A Catholic, Arthur thinks, probably a Catholic. It reminds him of the fairy court of Arthur’s legends and Morgana and Arthur’s son Mordred and the lady of the lake and Merlin being enchanted into a tree. What colour eyes did Merlin have? The legends do not say.

Tam Lin’s are grey.

The poem finishes, ‘Out then spak the Queen o Fairies, Out of a bush o broom, “Them that has gotten young Tam Lin Has gotten a stately-groom."

‘Out then spak the Queen o Fairies, And an angry woman was she, “Shame betide her ill-far'd face, And an ill death may she die, For she's taen awa the bonniest knight, In a' my companie.

“But had I kend, Tam Lin,” said she, "What now this night I see, I wad hae taen out thy twa grey een, And put in twa een o tree”.’

 

The group disperses after the reading and Mary and Doctor Philips along with the Rector decide to brave the streets.

‘We are not too far,’ Mary says. ‘And we will see Batley off at the parsonage along the way.’

Fanny clasps her hand, ‘would you like a servant to attend you? It would be no trouble to send someone with you.’

‘I think we’ll manage,’ Dr. Philips smiles at her. ‘As Mary said, it’s not too far. And we will make sure to lock up tight.’

‘And put the milk out,’ Mary laughs. She sees Fanny’s expression and clarifies, ‘my nan always said that to keep the fairies at bay you must leave them a dish of milk by your door and if your children have lost any teeth to leave them with the milk as well.’

Fanny shivers, ‘My children aren’t yet loosing their teeth.’

Mary pats her hands, smiles, ‘they will soon.’ To Napoleon and Arthur who are standing nearby. ‘Come visit, when you have a moment. It has been too long since we have spoken. Come for tea this week. Or perhaps next. And don’t be frightened of what the villagers say.’

Arthur, ‘and what is that, madam?’

‘Oh the usual drivel,’ Dr. Philips interjects. ‘Nothing that needs to be repeated. Come, Mary, let us go.’

They wave them off into the night.

Arthur asks as Napoleon offers him tea, ‘what is it that people say about her?’

‘Haven’t you heard? She’s a witch.’

The duke laughs, Sure, sure, and I’m a moorland hound. He stops, arranges his face, frowns at the former-emperor. ‘Are you – that is – how are you?’

‘I am well.’

Arthur sips the cooling tea. It’s perhaps a little over-steeped. There is an acidity hitting the back of his throat and he wants to go to sleep for he is tired and has spent nights up late and, as old habits are hard to break, he wakes at half five or six as he had when on campaign. Or, approximates of the above time, since at the moment watches are for fashion only.

So he wants to sleep but thinks that he should stay since Napoleon does not appear his usual self, whatever that is.

‘What did Philips want?’

‘To know the same thing as you. And he wished to make an inspection of my eye which I would not let him do. I’m an attraction and entertainment enough as it is.’

Arthur ignores the beginning of the rant for he knows it well and has read, in the emperor’s letters to him, at least five different variations of the theme.

‘Has anything changed?’ The duke moves to stand by the window with the emperor-general.

‘How do you mean?’

‘With your state of affairs.’

‘Cryptic.’

‘Your eye.’

‘Too blunt. No, nothing has changed. I can’t see in the dark any more than you can. I wish something had, just to have made it worth it.’

‘What were you thinking of this evening?’

‘A letter I wrote to my brother, once.’

Arthur is curious but does not wish to pry and so suggests a game of cards but Napoleon is not keen and so they drift to the fire place, watch the log burn down in silence, then drift apart for sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic. Domesticity. Bleak English Countryside. 
> 
>  
> 
> (basically, everything i write summed up.)

Two days pass and it is now Wednesday October 21st, 1818. Let us be precise – it was what a’ clock? Oh, never mind. It is some-point-in-time-in-the-morning.

 

Napoleon contemplates a piece of paper and the low morning mist. The house is quiet for it is early, possibly not yet ten and so not yet breakfast. He is watching the river from his library, the shadows cast by low hanging branches. The bees are frantic but there is little he or the gardener Flint can do about it. He rubs his eye, the left one, the vision blurs then returns to normal. At night it feels as if it is on fire but he cannot bring himself to tell anyone for what is there to do? A prescription of laudanum, most likely, a prescription he generally detests. Especially in moments like these, when his mind needs to be clear.

He had told Arthur that nothing had changed because he cannot say that he sees things he is sure others do not see. Except, perhaps, Mrs. Mary Philips and Flint. But they hardly count, one being a woman and the other a gardener and a Welshman (the latter apparently mattering, to some extent, here in England. Napoleon had inquired once, what is wrong with the Welsh? He had been informed that they are not equal to the English and probably get a little randy with the sheep. He had laughed, thought it ridiculous, had that brief moment of _this is something Murat would find amusing_ but then he knew such thoughts were fruitless). Currently, not-Georgiana is across the river, flickering in and out of view. She holds in her hand a rope and she is twisting it staring at the gate which is old iron and held firmly in place by the rock wall which divides the garden from the river path and is composed almost entirely of granite. Napoleon likes granite. Everything in Corsica had been granite. It feels like home and reminds him of his family.

Not-Georgiana’s image shudders, flickers, then drifts off towards the forest. Her non-eyes had borrowed into his for a moment. She had known he was watching from behind glass and across garden, over the impassible wall.

Napoleon frowns at the scene. Hums under his breath, turns back to the room, the paper in hand, the fire which needs tending to.  

 

The paper in question is a list of questions Dr. Philips had left on Sunday. He had handed it to the emperor and had said, ‘consider what I have written’. The questions Napoleon finds invasive and personal – especially coming from a man who is not _his_ doctor. In general, he assumes Philips must think him either mad, melancholic, or concussed. What any of it had to do with his eye he is unsure of.

‘So, does he think me temporarily mad or permanently so?’ He asks the empty room.

_Do you feel tired at all hours?_

_Is there an experience of tintinnabulation?_

_Do you find it difficult to wake in the morning?_

_Are you able to remember what you had the previous evening for supper?_

_Do you experience headaches?_

_Do you experience lapses in time? Where you cannot recall where you were?_

_Are you sleeping too much? Too little?_

_Are you easily irritable?_

_Have your drinking or eating habits changed significantly?_

_Do you still enjoy activities you previously found pleasurable or engaging?_

_In the past week since the event how have you felt?_

The list continues. When he finishes he says, ‘It’s his wife I feel sorry for.’ The paper ends up in the fire.

 

Overall, despite her apparent madness, which Napoleon believes is merely a manic desire to have human contact outside of her overbearing husband, he is sympathetic to Mary Philips. She reminds him of his mother in fleeting ways. And also, as one caged bird to another, there must be a natural affinity.

He remembers Mary in the months after the March Incident and, although they never spoke of it, he is fairly sure there had been a disposal of a baby’s body at some point in the chaotic days surrounding her delivering the child and Lady Georgiana disappearing. He knows these things are difficult but never mentioned. His mother, apart from their brief conversation that once, never dwelled on the losses aloud or gave voice to her feelings upon the subject. The first Nabulione, the first Maria Anna, the unnamed one who hadn’t been fully formed. Then after he and Joseph there had been another two Maria Anna’s and a nameless boy, and one or two others as well, but no one spoke of them or gave them names or indicated even that they had been born.

He remembers being four or five, it had been the middle of the night and he had taken Joseph’s hand and they had hovered by the door to the room where there had been a lot of screaming. Joseph had whispered, ‘she is going to die’ and Napoleon had replied, ‘not our mother, never our mother’. By the fire, so it went in and out of sight, he had seen a creature. He cannot recall its face but knows that he had it had graced his childhood nightmares. The creature, once his mother had stopped screaming, took a bundle of white sheets, which he now knows contained a child – living or dead is uncertain – and had faded into the shadows. His mother caught him a week later, said that he crept around too much for a young boy. It was ill mannered and rude, to want to know everyone’s business. The memory had joined the many which never left his mind; that dust layered compartment that contained things no one need know about him and his family.

There are some things, he knows, you do for your family that you wouldn’t think you would do otherwise. Duty, even more than love, can make a man act outside of himself.

Mary, though, was more a mystery than his mother. She would appear, sometimes, in their garden at strange hours of the night. Two in the morning, shivering, in only her shift. Albine and Fanny would run out with a blanket and robe to bring her in. She would be shaking and murmuring, I almost have it, I almost have it. Although one time she had been singing a lullaby, Tra li la li la, tra li la li la and shaking even though it had been a warm July night.

He thinks the _actions_ madness, of course, which is different from her _being_ mad. But with such a husband and such a set of events, he cannot blame her and thinks that the English should be more encouraging of divorce.

They would speak, sometimes, and he _did_ tell her of the carriage letter to Joseph all those years ago and how, sometimes, he does not feel equal to the mere idea of dressing let alone rising from his bed. It is a Herculean effort to _exist_ some days. And he explained that his mind—usually as finely honed as a razor—occasionally enjoyed absolute rebellion. Mary understood and said she felt the same, most of the time. Even before March she had been like that. And her husband would be very kind and loving towards her and he read so many books on the subject of melancholia and he was always telling her to be positive.

‘Which I’m never sure how to take,’ she had laughed.

Of course, this too he understood, understands. As he readies his face for his morning shave, which he does himself on account of his valet being terrible with a blade, he wonders what there really is to be positive about apart from the sheer obvious – beautiful day (well, in England, that is always a minor miracle), food on the table, a roof over one’s head and so on. He thinks instead, I haven’t seen my son in over six years. My son is growing up and learning to hate me. He can walk and speak and is probably tall and handsome like his mother. He has learned to ride and read and write and I have seen none of it. And what else? I have lost my empire, my standing, my work, my family all in one fell swoop. Please tell me what it is I am supposed to be positive about?

Blucher didn’t shoot me.

This, he owns as a thing that happened, for what it’s worth.

As he shaves he longs for Joseph and Lucien, they understood him, even Pauline – someone of relation to him who would _understand._ He knows breakfast is to be served in an hour. He does not think he wants to eat but arranges himself so it is Napoleon present and not Bonaparte or the General or the Corporal and _certainly not_ Nabulio or Rabulio or Nabulione. It was one of those other Napoleons who woke, who watched from the window, who spoke with Mary in months past, it is the emperor whose face he has decided to wear this morning.

 

 

Paris, 1786, sees the first black covered carriages that are hearses riding through her streets in the dead of night carrying the dead from cemeteries to the damp, cold underground that is all limestone. In Napoleon’s childhood he had been to several funerals. He remembers the voceri and their piercing wails that cut a man to the quick. The rending of hair and garments and screaming cries without tears and tracks of nails etching their paths down from eye to chin leaving behind red, bloodied ribbons. Red life and cold granite, his childhood. That thin line between land and sea and sky which bled red at sunrise and sunset.

No one in his family had been a _voceru_ – the wailers, criers, weepers who would sing and sing and sing for the dead until their voices ran hoarse and made the little Nabulione imagine the red, blood rawness that must have been their throats which would have been not unlike the red, blood rawness of the wine at mass. The red, blood rawness of Christ made flesh.

The bodies were not fully deposed into the catacombs until 1814. Somewhere in those heaping masses are bones were people he knew, people he had seen. He wonders which skull is Robespierre’s, which is Danton’s. Perhaps, because history is nothing but a ridiculous story, they are lying next to each other. They bones growing damp and cold together.

All of this is to say that Hudson Lowe has allowed for the letters of ‘death in line of duty’ to be sent to the families of the missing men because how many men need to disappear and how much something-like-magic needs to happen before you are forced to accept the truth in front of you.

Thomas Linden, ensign, named for his grandfather and whose surname is that of a beautiful tree, was a local man and his funeral is held at three o’clock in the afternoon. A casket with an empty uniform is lowered and his parents are frozen as Batley conducts the last of the holy offices. The French are towards the back of the crowd and stay for only as long as is polite. Fanny says, ‘ _He_ isn’t dead.’ No one responds.

 

 

A woman had once sung, _I do not believe it is a sin to wipe out those who have deprived me of my treasure and I hope that the Madonna will take care of my revenge._

 

 

Wellesley and the Arbuthnots come visit. They enter and sit and take tea. Everyone is silent. Napoleon moves about the room, touching books, playing with small statues and vases and the miniature of his son that rests by the fireplace. Eventually he stalks out without a word. He passes through the hall with the Bertrand children huddling in corners with their wide, scared eyes and Layton who hovers by shadows and does his best to be unseen.

‘I need to go for a ride,’ he says over his shoulder. Layton, he knows, is making a face.

‘I’ll go with you.’ Arthur is there, at the threshold of the parlour and the hall.

‘Fine.’

They set out. The wind shifts. In the shadows a creature from his childhood dreams watches.

  

Inevitably they make their way towards the forest. Of course they do. Napoleon watches Arthur from the corner of his eye. The rigidity in the duke’s shoulders, too tense to be on horseback, he jerks, startled, when Napoleon speaks. The emperor asks, ‘have you been to the barrows? The local ones?’

‘I have.’

The duke shifts in his saddle. They are already in the forest and only a few minutes have passed. Arthur glances over and inquires if Napoleon has ever been.

‘I have.’

Arthur mutters that the emperor never asks an innocent question.

‘I take offence to that, Wellesley.’

‘You cannot deny it.’

A shrug. Simply, Napoleon clarifies, I was wondering if you think perhaps there is a connection. Look, he turns to Arthur, let us sit down tonight and work things out the best as we understand them. Let us place the events in an orderly fashion and —

The air shifts. Compresses. Napoleon starts and they are both staring forward. Which path are they on of that cross that cuts the forest? They cannot say.

Ahead, the rolling mist gathers. Thickens. Their horses begin to whiney, to stamp their feet and try and back away. Napoleon can see the familiar form of the creatures he witnessed and reaches for his pistol. He cannot pull it out. It feels stuck, or perhaps, too heavy to lift. Arthur struggles with the same.

‘Who goes there?’ The duke calls out. There is no answer but the form becomes more clear and defined. The elongated arms and legs, the flesh looking as if were not real but stretched too thin across bones. The eyes. Oh the eyes. Napoleon’s feels as if his is on fire. He can see something by the feet of the creature. Arthur, to his credit, does not appear shocked. Or, he does, but not in the way Napoleon expects him to be.

For the emperor the mist begins to change colour from greys and blacks to greens and deep blues. Other things, smaller, quicker, are hiding in it. He watches as they move, fleeting from behind the non-Linden (for that is the face staring at them without seeing them) to trees and stones. The non-Linden walks forward, it’s knees looking as if they are going to crack. The sinews stretching and stretching so bones, which are jagged and sharp, are to be cutting through shattered flesh yet, yet never _actually_ manage.

Lifting its hand it reaches forward towards Arthur who yanks on his horse’s bridle causing it to skitter back with nostrils flaring, ears flat. The non-Linden’s hand lowers to the horse’s nose and it rears. Napoleon quickly moves to push the creature away but it catches his hand and he can feel that familiar fire and ice sensation that buzzes up his arm. Struggling he attempts to free his arm but the creature does not let go, merely tilts its head and watches him. He snarls that he is here for Bertrand. The same as every time. The same as that first time. The creature smiles, and oh god those teeth, and leans forward to — it goes still. Napoleon stares at it. The essence that is so clear behind whatever it is that makes up its apparently absent eyes dims. Flickers. The creature falls backward.

‘You looked in need of some help,’ Arthur says, holding his pistol. ‘Nothing like clocking an ensign on the back of the head to sort matters.’

Napoleon stares at it. Then looks up. ‘You were thrown.’

‘I got up.’

‘We couldn’t get our pistols out.’

‘Well, clearly I managed.’

‘You hit it on the head.’

‘So I did.’

‘It’s unconscious.’

‘Evidently. Poor lad’s going to have a smarting head in the morning. But I think _that_ will be the least of his worries.’

‘Lad?’

Arthur steps over the creature and take’s the reigns of Vizir, he is frowning and says that the emperor is now sounding like he was the one who was thrown.

‘No,’ Napoleon dismounts. Steps back gingerly from the crumpled form on the path. ‘What I mean is – this isn’t a “lad”. This is… _something._ ’ Arthur nudges the creature over so it’s facing them.

‘Looks like a normal lad to me.’

‘You cannot see it?’

‘How do you mean? I see someone who resembles the description of the ensign we semi-buried today.’

‘The skin isn’t right. And the eyes. Surely you saw the eyes. _You_ always notice eyes.’

Arthur shakes his head, furrows his brow, No, no. Nothing strange. Looks like a normal man to me. Albeit one who is going to have to answer to an angry Lord Lowe, and rightfully so.

As they spoke the pressure in the air receded, lightened, bore away from them. The mist slunk into the surrounding bushes and trees taking the smaller creatures with it and leaving behind a form on the road. Leaving the controversial non-Linden the two men walk over to the other figure.

A man, dark haired, no boots, no coat. Napoleon practically runs the last few steps to the man’s side and lifts the face so he could see it as well as one may in the dim of the forest.

He breathes out, ‘Bertrand.’ He leans down, can feel breath against his cheek, crosses himself and thinks that he has never been so happy about finding a man alive as in this moment.

Arthur quickly joins him and together they manage to maneuver Bertrand onto horseback. Linden, Arthur indicates, can go on the other horse.

‘We’re leaving it.’

‘We are most certainly not. How can you even _suggest_ such a thing?’

‘It’s not a _him_ , Wellesley. It’s an ungodly creature that I’ve never seen before _wearing the skin_ of Linden.’

‘I know what you described to me the other night but this is not that, credit me at least with having the ability to see.’

‘I do credit you the ability to see but not necessarily to perceive and understand.’

‘We’re not leaving him.’

Napoleon glares, stares down at the creature, looks back up to Arthur. The duke can see wheels turning, the way the eyes stray towards his pistol. He thinks, _he wouldn’t_. But isn’t sure what he would and would not put past Napoleon.

The emperor relaxes a fraction, his face shifts, he smiles. The storm clouds that had been so present behind those eyes are gone. It is as if nothing had occurred.

‘We’ll return. At the moment our priority is getting Bertrand safe and perhaps a doctor would not be amiss. Linden we can come back for.’

Arthur wants to protest, to say that this makes no sense as Linden has been missing far longer than Bertrand and they have two horses so can convey both men back but before he can voice his concerns Napoleon takes his arm and smiles at him and says, ‘come along now’ and, as he always finds when he is with Napoleon when the man wants his own way, he complies.  

Towards the edge of the forest Arthur thinks he sees Georgiana hiding in the branches and brambles, her dress that black and grey one they found in the woods, her teeth are bright and clean and straight and big. Napoleon’s grip might have tightened a fraction, they might have walked a little faster, or it might have been all imagined. Arthur, later, as Dr. Philips tends to Bertrand and everyone sits tense and quiet, admits that perhaps it had been nothing. Perhaps it had all been imagined.

He leans in to Napoleon to suggest they decant to the library for the suggested meeting and sorting of events when Layton bursts into the room issuing apologies but – Have they not heard the news? How can they not have heard the news? It’s Corporal Paine – he’s gone missing and all that is to be found are his boots and his sweetheart’s locket.

 

 

It is pointless to go into the details of the search party that was naturally amassed. The lack of enthusiasm expressed by many for entering the woods that were so successful and ending an unwitting life. The lack of hope held for actually finding Corporal Paine. The fear, even as Batley prayed over the departing party, that none would escape this simple search. Needless to say, no trace beyond the already-discovered boots and locket were found of Paine. The usual French contingent of such searches was absent as Napoleon was not feeling equal to the idea of reentering the forest having just come from it and Montholon was erring on the side of caution and felt that since his emperor was not entering, he will remain _outside_ as well. Bertrand, quite obviously, was in no shape to be riding.

Dr. Philips completes his visit as the sun sinks low in the autumnal sky and night sets in. Taking turns in shifts members of the household sit with Bertrand as the night edges slowly forward. Napoleon finds himself awake in early hours and relieves Montholon from his duty saying that since he is up he might as well sit with Bertrand. Moving the chair so it is between the bed and the window he props his feet up and maneuvers the candle for better light to read by. Wind picks up and the house is silent but for the usual sinking and settling old buildings make when occupants have gone to rest. Half dozing he thinks that something is out the window, staring in. That long fingers are scratching at the glass. But this, his partially dreaming mind rationalizes, cannot be so for they are on the first floor and the window is therefore quite high off the ground. When he wakes there is a crack in the glass. Fanny’s hand mirror lies broken on the floor. There is morning mist over the land. Bertrand remains asleep.

 

 

At times Bertrand speaks in his sleep but it is mostly nonsense. He asks for Fanny as Napoleon inspects the broken mirror and she is sent for. The last few hours are the only time she has been away from his side and any movement he makes, any spoken word that can be understood, is hope. Most of his ravings appear to be confessions escaping unknowing lips as he falls down the road of past sins and transgressions repeating at the end _pater noster pater noster_ but there is no sacred seal of confession and it is only Fanny at his bed holding his hand and ignoring the names he repeats and repents.

Fanny wants to be in London. She does not want to be in dirty Woodford with an irritable emperor who is so arrogant as to believe he ought to still be treated as an emperor. She does not want to have to share a table with Albine and her cold-hearted ways and insipid Montholon.

She thinks of Paris and the bells of Notre Dame. She remembers embers burning low in the fire of her old sitting room. This is something she can think of without feeling her throat clench, her jaw tense, her eyes burn. So she focuses on this picture in her mind as she holds Bertrand’s hands. What had she been doing that morning? Reading her favourite book, she thinks. She can still recite lines from it. There had been a pretty sonnet that Julia, one of the characters, had so liked - _Still is the night-breeze!—not a lonely sound_ _/ Steals through the silence of this dreary hour_ …something, something… _to steep in short forgetfulness my cares / th’affrighted God still flies when Love peruses, / Still – still denies the wretched lover’s prayers._ She recalls that she had been the first to read Ms Radcliff’s new novel at the time for it had yet to be translated into French. She remembers Josephine begging her for details, taking her hand as they walked through pretty flowers and asking, But is it as scandalous as everyone says? The English are so prudish on these matters. Tell me the naughtiest bits. And she had and – and now what? Josephine is dead and Bertrand is dying and I am here in England, home of my mother’s family and yet so alone.

She returns to her sitting room and the embers in the fireplace – she watches them collapse, that soft sound of what was once wood collapsing, falling into itself. In her mind she makes the embers brighter, enlivens them then reverses it all so the log is whole and the fire is alive. She faithfully recalls the lessons she had as a child and wishes that the log, that Bertrand, were like a phoenix. She watches herself as if through a mirror. She wants to reach out to touch herself, she cannot, but she tries regardless and fails. The fire is burning, though it ought not to be, and the room is very hot which is a consolation. Her hands as they claspse Bertrand’s are sweating. Burning. Prickling. Her heart is racing and the fire in her mind is now a bonfire from some May celebration she had attended. Or perhaps it is Moscow burning but she had not been in Moscow. The room is too hot. Sweltering. She is shaking.

A gasp.

Hers, perhaps.

Henri grasps her arm, his eyes open and fearful. His voice scraps over his words, _I saw the dead and they were not kind._

She wants to cry. Instead, she passes out.

 

 

Dr. Philips arrives as soon as he can. He sighs to Montholon, ‘it seems like the entire household is falling apart.’

Montholon cannot account for it but tells him how he found Madame Bertrand unconscious on the floor with a burned hand and her husband awake and speaking madness about having seen the dead and the children had been at the door crying.

‘Everyone is in uproar today, it seems.’ He doesn’t explain, instead attends to Fanny to whom he proscribes a day in bed, a slave for the burns, and plenty of tea and soup. A similar verdict is given to Bertrand in whom he can see nothing physically wrong with the man. Who are the dead that Bertrand has seen, every one wants to know.

The grand marshal frowns, ‘I saw Lady Georgiana, although it was not her I am sure of it. And I saw several of the missing officers although it cannot have been them.’ He pauses. Plays with the edge of the blanket. His hands are trembling. The one held in Mary’s hand bears signs of slight burns. He turns it over as if inspecting a mildly interesting trinket. ‘I saw men who died in Russia. Do you remember, sire, do you remember?’

Napoleon does not answer but he is staring intensely at Bertrand.

‘Do you remember, sire? That thing from Italy, all those years ago, you said you saw it in Russia with the men’s –’ He goes pale, cannot speak, shakes his head. But Napoleon knows and understands and remembers.

 

           

Later, after Bertrand has been fully attended to in private by Philips the doctor is invited to the emperor’s study where he may see to the exile’s eye if he still feels up to the task. He does and sets to work as soon as he is settled in with a drink at his elbow.

‘My wife wishes to invite you and his grace to tea later this week.’

Napoleon says, Perhaps.

His grace, who is around to a point where Albine suggests he might as well move in to the extra bedroom, says, Of course.

Napoleon smiles. Arthur ruffles his newspaper.

‘Have you heard about the doors?’ The doctor asks.

Napoleon, ‘I’ve not.’

‘There have been gashes. Monstrous gashes across doors throughout the village. I saw them at the church. Poor Batley was having them repainted when I rode by this morning. They looked as if they were made by a lion.’

Arthur lowers the newspaper.

Philips continues, ‘we don’t have any which Mary contributes to the lavender and sage planted by the garden gates. I never would have thought such a thing mattered beyond lending a base of comfort for the superstitious.’

‘Iron,’ the duke states.

‘Pardon, your grace?’

‘Iron affects them. It’s why the taken men lose boot nails and horses their shoes. They don’t like iron. And the general was saying that he saw one the other day who would not enter through the iron gate, isn’t that right?’

A laugh, ‘well then the horseshoe Mary insists we hang above the door will be put to good use. Well,’ he sits back from Napoleon. ‘I detect no discernable difference between your left and right eye. Which is odd, one would think something would have changed. And you are sure you have experienced no side effects?’

‘None.’

‘Well, there’s a thing. Now, gentlemen, what think you of the mysterious burn marks on Madame Bertrand’s hand?’

Arthur and Napoleon exchange glances. The paper is carefully folded and set on the former-emperor’s desk. The duke coughs, looks embarrassed.

‘She claims she envisioned an ember becoming a fire and that brought Bertrand back to us.’ Napoleon explains when Arthur continues to demure. ‘That is to say, it was magic.’

Philips laughs but it is hollow. Arthur adds, ‘We decided to do an experiment.’ And? The duke holds up a burnt edge of paper. ‘Hold this and think very intently on fire. It should burn.’

With a raised eyebrow and a smirk the doctor does as bid. They wait. A few minutes go by – nothing. Philips looks up from the paper which remains docile and decided not on fire in his hand.

‘Perhaps you should think on it with greater fervour.’ Napoleon suggests.

‘I assure you I was.’

Arthur takes the paper back and looks it over. Philips suggests that a demonstration might be in order. The duke, to Philips great shock, blushes and says he would not like to do such a thing. Magic, he says, is an uncertain thing. Napoleon laughs at him, ‘what he means to say is that when he did it he accidentally broke my glasses at the same time. Here, let me.’ The paper is snatched and held up. He closes his eyes, brow furrows in concentration. Philips watches carefully to ensure that no trick is played. The paper is in sight and the candles in the room are not near enough to set the paper alight should it have some flammable substance upon it. After a moment the candle closest to Napoleon extinguishes itself. Then another and another and the room is left in the natural light of midday. Gradually the top of the paper darkens then a flicker of red, orange, blue and the paper is alight. Napoleon’s eyes open and his face is a broad, satisfied smile. He drops the paper onto a plate and it burns itself out.

‘Voila, monsieur! How do you like that?’

‘I like it not one bit! How did you manage it?’

‘How his grace explained. You merely think on something very hard for a while and it happens. Somehow his grace, though, always ends up breaking something else as a side effect. Volatile man that he is.’

‘I say!’

‘Go on then, show the good doctor your magical skills.’

Arthur huffs, takes up a scrap of paper, and holds it much the same as Napoleon had. Again, a moment passes before the paper begins to smolder before catching alight. Not a second later three books fly across the room and smack against the far wall. Philips gasps, Good lord, man! And Arthur provides a pointed glare at the emperor. A candle next to the duke also reignites.

Napoleon, ‘well, this will save us plenty on matches. Although I fear for my personal belongings. I am placing a moratorium on his grace practicing magic within my house from now on.’

‘No fear,’ Arthur mutters. ‘I’ve no liking for it.’

An hour passes with Philips setting up experiments in order to attempt to find the trick for, despite everything, he still holds that magic – something straight out of folk lore and legend – cannot exist. The witches in Macbeth are fictional, he is certain. The women hanged on Pendle Hill in the 1620s were innocent victims of a more superstitious time. The fairy queen was always an allegory for Queen Elizabeth, nothing more. Tam Lin a northern ballad sung for entertainment. Sir Walter Scott was merely a good poet with a knowledge of local stories. None of it was real. None of it _could_ be real. This is the age of reason, after all.

After a few of the proposed experiments are completed – lighting a candle in a different room (failed), changing the colour of a small, white feather (semi-successful, although his grace accidentally sent general Bonaparte falling backwards in his chair), and moving a ha’penny across the desk (unsuccessful) – Philips takes his leave with promises of returning on the morrow. Once he is gone and the house as calm as it could be under such circumstances Napoleon turns to Arthur, ‘you know, I really hate man.’

‘Don’t say anything too strong against him or it might just happen.’

Napoleon pulls a face but minds the advice. They spend the evening in reading and checking on the Bertrands. Napoleon does not say that anytime they attempt this thing called magic he can see their _friends_ gathering on the other side of the garden wall. Arthur does not say that his right hand feels as if it is on fire itself and the only time it abates is when he is making use of this cursed talent. It is too early and too late to worry about such things. The perpetually inaccurate clock chimes three although in reality it is most likely closer to eleven. Napoleon stands and says he is retiring for the evening, he will see Arthur in the morning.

‘Oh, and Wellesley.’

‘Hm?’

‘In the forest — I had meant to say, with the creature, and your quick actions –’

‘Think nothing of it…although we never went back for him.’

‘No.’

‘You knew we wouldn’t.’

A shrug.

‘Good night, Wellesley.’

Arthur offers his hand and they shake.

‘Good night, Bonaparte.’

The all knowing smile returns, one that Arthur had not seen for a few days. ‘It’s Emperor, to you. But I’ll make allowances for your exhaustion.’  

‘Whatever delusions will make you happy, general.’

After Napoleon has left Arthur pours himself a drink and settles by the fire for another hour or so of reading. He thinks, as he opens to his marked page, My hand didn’t hurt when we shook. _There_ is something to _not_ think about.

It rains.

           


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bees.

A letter from Lord Liverpool arrives on Friday, which coincidentally, is when the sheep begin to die. Arthur tears it open and leans against the fireplace as he reads it. Harriet and Charles wait with barely repressed curiosity.

‘Long and short is that he wants to know what is happening here for London has heard rumours of witchcraft, invasion, escape, dastardly deeds, murder, and general mayhem. Hudson Lowe is being discreet, for once, in his letters. Mainly, Liverpool is concerned about the local moral in such a tender time as the formation of a new government.’

‘He formed government three months ago,’ Harriet says.

‘Well he’s concerned. Afraid for a split in the party, you know the old worries. He wants to know if he should send anyone in.’

Charles and Harriet exchange a glance. They shrug. Charles says that he isn’t sure who, exactly, one _should_ send in for such a thing as this. A priest? A scientist? God forbid, Sir Walter Scott? There is something poetic about it, he points out. Arthur holds up his hand, Cease and desist man! I won’t have _romantics_ running about the place.

Sitting down he passes the letter over for their perusal. ‘How does one explain everything that is happened here to someone in London? He’ll think me mad!’ He stands and begins to pace. ‘I suppose we could say it was local unrest. Workers displeased with regulations, taxes, duties – the usual stuff. Or perhaps it is all nothing? No, that won’t work. Too many disappeared men for that to work.’

Charles shrugs, ‘how about we invite him up? Him and one or two other members of cabinet. Maybe a natural philosopher for good measure. Who was that chap your brother had in India? Did some surveys in Tibet.’

‘Is that what Richard told you? I suppose surveying is a neat way of saying spying. And I think you mean Francis Buchanan. Scottish fellow. Very dour. Richard took to him for some reason. I never saw it, personally. Very keen on plants.’ Arthur stops his marching up and down the room and returns to his vacated chair. The letter is passed back to him. Fine, he nods, we’ll send for Lord Liverpool. That is the best option. I see no other way to go about it without his seeing everything first hand.

With the matter settled Arthur tends to the correspondence with as much tact as possible. The letter is reviewed, a few edits made, and sent.

‘The earliest he’ll be able to arrive is Wednesday. Assuming he is able to leave directly he receives the letter. Which, to be honest, is hardly likely. So let us assume Friday or Saturday.’

‘Then what?’ Charles asks. ‘Ask him to burn a piece of paper and send in a member of parliament to the forest to be eaten?’

'I will only risk a member of parliament’s life if they’re wearing a terrible hat.'

‘Arthur, my dear man, when are they _not_?’

 

           

The fields of Woodford remind Arthur of Exodus.

Batley, speaking to Arthur’s thoughts, quotes, ‘Behold, the hand of the Lord is upon thy cattle which is in the field, upon the horses, upon the asses, upon the camels, upon the oxen, and upon the sheep: there shall be a very grievous murrain.’

‘Let’s not be maudlin,’ chides Arthur. He thinks, At least it’s not people. At least it’s only sheep. Although he owns that perhaps the farmers might feel different as their livelihood lies mouldering on dead grass.

‘And the crops?’ Harriet asks.

‘Flattened, apparently.’

‘Lord preserve us. What do they _want_?’

‘The land, I think.’

In the distance, Arthur can hear bells. They are small delicate ones, silver and sparkle in sunlight. He wants to go to them, wherever they are. Harriet’s arm in his stops him. The iron in his blood holds him still. They turn away from the scene.

 

Charles orders a survey to be completed of all the surrounding areas organizing and cataloging the losses. He is frantic lest it should travel from sheep to other animals, as is spoken of in the Bible.

‘I am no longer of the mind to discount children’s stories. We need a horse doctor here to see what is doing this.’

Arthur glances towards the ever present tree lined horizon. Neither man speaks of it. They send to Cranford for the horse doctor. He is busy, they hear. All the horses in Cranford are dying.

 

 

‘Well,’ Arthur says as he flings himself into a chair beside Napoleon. ‘At least it’s not people?’

Napoleon gives him a look and the duke shrugs. Upstairs the children are playing, they can hear them racing up and down the hall. This is a small comfort, that at least there are some who find pleasure in the small things.

‘Charles and I are thinking we should put notices out. The best ways to protect one’s house – what was it Dr. Philips said? Lavender by the gate? Bowls of milk?’

‘Salt,’ Napoleon adds. In his lap is a large tome. Arthur sees that it is an Italian translation of John Dee. ‘You know I’m not sure how much of this is true.’ He turns a page.

‘Research?’

‘I had Montholon send for it.’

He turns another page.

‘Did you know that he summoned an angel who said he should swap his wife with his friend’s wife?’

‘Who?’

‘John Dee. Madness.’

‘I wonder what his wife said about it.’

‘Apparently they swapped for an entire year.’ He pauses to think about this. Shakes his head. ‘Ridiculous. And here you protestants like to pretend superiority to the rest of superstitious Catholics.’

‘How does this help us with dying cattle and advancing forests?’

The book is shut with a thud. ‘It doesn’t, the emperor sighs. ‘I’ve spent all morning with it in the vain hope of finding something. Next, a Jesuit grimoire. You would not _believe_ the things people used to summon to help with their Latin grammar.’

‘Oh? Anything I should send to my sons? They could use to sharpening up in that department.’

The new book is hefted up and opened carefully. Napoleon stares at it for a long time before closing it. He glances over to Arthur. The duke can see the appearance of calculations.

He asks, What?

Napoleon says, Nothing.

He replies, I don’t believe that.

Napoleon fondles the book before turning fully to Arthur, ‘how good is your Latin?’

‘Poor. I could probably use one of whatever it was priests were summoning in the day as well.’

‘Damn.’

He passes the book over to Arthur who inspects it. He opens, flips past the usual printer’s comments and author’s notes to the first page of text. He sighs over it. He owns that if he had a month and a good dictionary he could probably make something of it but Batley would be a better man to ask.

No matter, Napoleon waves a hand. It probably won’t be very useful.

They spend the day perusing the other texts brought in from London and checking on the Bertrands. Towards evening they go out into the garden to see to the bees. Flint had indicated that they were active. Napoleon herds several of the children with them.

'I know you all, you’ve been inside and avoiding your studies. Come learn something useful.’

They file out accordingly with Hortense wearing the First Council’s coat and holding little Henri’s hand. The eldest of the children, Napoleon Bertrand, marches ahead with the eldest Montholon boy, Triston, following behind. Then went Charles-Francoise, Hortense, and Henri. The little Napoleon is sure of himself until he catches sight of the swarm. He falters turns and casually attempts to stride behind his namesake.

Swarm, Arthur thinks, is perhaps a misnomer. It was a mass, a large gathering unlike any swarm Arthur had ever seen. The bees hover above their hives and Flint is standing back watching in admiration. Napoleon, upon seeing the bees begins to fret. Will they leave? He asks Flint in Italian. Flint responds No, no, he doesn’t think so. Napoleon nods. Arthur asks the gardener, I didn’t know you spoke Italian.

‘I don’t, your grace.’

Napoleon is not convinced and he is certain they will leave. He wonders if maybe they shouldn’t do something although he is at a loss as to exactly _what_ it is that ought to be done. He stomps about at a safe distance. Scowls at Flint. Scowls at Arthur. Scowls at the bees.

‘It took a long time to establish my hives,’ he says. Arthur raises an eyebrow. Napoleon glares. ‘Of course you wouldn’t understand. Our honey is the best in the region. Ask Flint.’ He turns to the gardener and in Italian instructs him to inform his Grace about the state of the French honey. Flint owns it is good. Down to the lavender that’s all around the gates, it is.

Napoleon turns back to Flint, ‘do something!’

‘You’re my gardener!’

‘I indeed have that honour but you have to understand, sir, that when the bees are in such a state nowt in the world can settle them until they want to be settled.’

This does nothing to soothe the emperor who insists that all is wrong. He could deal well enough with everything until the bees swarmed. Now it’s all going to be terrible. Well, he amends, more so than it has been already.

Hortense approaches Arthur, little Henri is towed behind her. ‘They look fuzzy when they’re like that.’

‘They do, don’t they. Creating quite a fervour.’

‘His majesty always worries about the bees.’

‘I can see.’

She tugs at the lapels of her overly large coat. Henri leans in and whispers in her ear she nods. Squinting up at Arthur she motions him down. He obliges.

‘Henri says that they look like the fuzzy man in the mirror.’

Arthur smiles, ‘what fuzzy man is this?’

‘The one in the mirror who tries to get out sometimes.’

‘Oh! Trapped in the mirror, is he? That doesn’t seem like a very clever man.’

Hortense shakes her head, no she supposes. He probably isn’t. She looks back to the bees for a quiet minute before tugging Henri’s hand and taking him back to the house. The rest of the children follow after Napoleon has finished lecturing them on the importance of bees.

‘That’s not all, sir,’ Flint calls out as Napoleon and Arthur make to return to the house. The emperor waits. ‘The chickens, sir—‘

‘Dead?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh.’ He takes Arthur’s arm, ‘come, we will see to the chickens.’

 

The little area of the garden where they were allowed to ramble and do as they pleased reminds Arthur of the scene in the morning. There are no signs of savagery or disease. The emperor moves past the dead fowl and inspects the edge of the walls, pokes a few stones, returns to the gate where Arthur is stationed and leans down to look at a few plants along the edge of it. He nods again.

‘I see how they did it. They came in here,’ he indicates the corner, ‘but could not go further than the gate.’

‘Iron?’

Napoleon nods, Yes that and a few other things.

He looks at the corner for a moment longer. Looks beyond it. The forest has grown so it is nor more than a few hundred meters from the land. He can see the shadows folding into themselves. The air grows heavy. He steps back, takes Arthur’s arm, suggests they move inside. The gate they close firmly. The remains of the chickens they leave behind.  

 

 

‘At night I can hear the bells, they are so faint that sometimes I miss them but then they become stronger and I can see lights in the forest which is slowly surrounding us. Lowe did a survey the other day, you know, and found that we’re being swallowed. Should we move people out? I wonder if maybe we ought to do that. Evacuate a village and for what purpose? So the trees do not consume us alive.

‘Our cities are iron and marble and steel and we have factories and steam and fire and everything that is great and makes a nation powerful. Why is it, then, that we still fear the dark? Why is it, then, that I think there must be something in those old wives’ tales. The children see a fuzzy man in a mirror. Is that merely imagination spurred on by dark happenings or is it real? My hand, the right one, feels as if it is on fire except when it makes fire or when I am – but that is no matter – and is that real or am I imagining it?

‘I hate this uncertainty. This mucking about in the unknown. Where is firm action and decisive leadership we are both known for?’

Napoleon, not answering, takes his hand, turns it palm up. The fire recedes. The former-emperor traces the lines, rubs thumb over the tender skin of inner wrist. Arthur thinks he should pull his hand away but it feels nice for the fire has gone and Napoleon’s hands are gentle and delicate. Not the hands he would expect on a tyrant, not the hands of an artillery-man either. How is it that those years of war can seem so distant yet so present. He cannot account for it.

At the moment they are sitting in the library and the house is its usual still self and the clock down the hall is chiming midnight and for all Arthur knows it could be right.

‘Does your hand feel as if it is being held to a flame?’ He asks. The repetition of palm tracing is mesmerizing. He cannot look away.

‘It does. Except right now.’

‘And your eye?’

A curt nod.

‘For how long?’

‘Since it happened.’

‘You’ve said nothing.’

A shrug. Removing his hand from Napoleon’s grasp he reaches forward and touches the other man’s face. The former-emperor freezes, swallows, nostrils flare then he is normal. Gently, gently Arthur moves his thumb to the edge of the afflicted eye – the iris is completely black – a swirling black and as the fire light moves he catches flecks of grey and silver, reflected red and gold. Eyes close and Arthur’s thumb brushes over the lid. Napoleon is absolutely still, the feeling of Arthur’s hand burning into his face. It is not the ice and fire of the creature of the woods but something tamer. Or, rather, more restrained. This causes a tug at his lips and Arthur murmurs, What’s so amusing?

‘Nothing I can explain.’

‘Do you find amusement in everything?’

‘No. You know that.’

Arthur sighs, agrees that yes he knows. Of course he knows.

‘I can see them, you know. When you see a human I see something else.’

Arthur’s thumb retreats from the lid and rests against the edge of the eye. Napoleon remains with eyes closed and breathing even.

‘Like in the forest with Bertrand.’

‘Exactly. And when I was watching over him the other night one was at the window. It tried to get in. Tell me more about the bells.’

‘I heard them today. They make my feet itch but something in me holds me still so I cannot move either away or towards’

Eyes open. They are, for a moment, both brilliant grey. Then they are as they were, mismatched and soft in the firelight. Arthur’s hand drops back down to Napoleon’s waiting ones.

‘Do not go towards them.’

'Do I appear a fool?’

‘No.’ A pause. ‘Although you can be, ah, in English you say _bloody minded_.’

Arthur laughs. Full and true and it echoes around the room. Napoleon’s tugging smile becomes a full grin. He flicks Arthur’s ear and is batted away. Good, he says, this is better. Pulling Arthur down to the floor with blankets and closer to the fire he says, Tell me about India. I want to hear about tigers and elephants and snakes larger than a grown man. And Arthur does. They fall asleep as the clock chimes three. Perhaps, Arthur thinks, things are going to be put right.


	12. Chapter 12

Peace. A respite. For three full days there is nothing beyond what hasn't happened before. So - yes, the forest expands, consumes land, devours two homes on Sunday as everyone huddles in church and Batley prays. Even the French show up on Sunday. They sit in the back. Are quite and respectful. Bertrand, people can see, is still pale and shaken but bearing up well regardless.

A respite. Save, for the dreams which keep the emperor up so he stalks furiously through the halls of the house only to end up moodily in front of the library fire. What is it that he dreams? Arthur asks during one of the interim days where things feel stagnant and heavy.

Of a boar.

Arthur isn't sure how to respond to this.

I was baptised, Napoleon insists. And baptised well. My mother, being who she is, would never allow a child of hers to be baptised badly. That is the requirement of a _mazzeri_ you see.

And excommunication?

Napoleon laughs, I've resolved my ills with the church and the holy father. I am a good son of Rome, now. For what it's worth.

Arthur sits, takes his hand much as he had taken the duke's and traces the lines. And whose face do you see in the entrails?

Napoleon stares at him. A tight noise in the back of his throat. He shakes his head. Cannot say, will not say. Napoleon leans forward, kisses him fast and hard. That constant magical pain recedes. Napoleon pulls away and departs from the room. Arthur sits alone in chair covered in sunlight with hands palm up resting on his knees as if a supplicant.

That is the peace. Napoleon hates it.

 

It comes to a point where things are too biblical for everyone's tastes. Napoleon is familiar with the Bible and the Qur'an and Torah, for that matter. He thinks it important to be well versed in the passionate beliefs and philosophies that govern mankind.

Bertrand speaks to him in private on a blustery Tuesday morning about his time in the forest. Not unlike Napoleon's own, he finds. He remembers the creatures with their stretched skin-faces yet at the same time they blur into beauty.

'I thought them hideous and awesome all at the same time.'

'One does not forego the other. Awesome means something merely inspires awe.'

'Fearsome, as well.'

'There's a good word. How are you otherwise, Henri?'

'Keeping well. I've been working with Henri and Napoleon on their studies. As much as one can study whilst sitting in a bed.'

Napoleon nods. He says he'll send in Arthur. The baby, not the duke. He pauses at the door, turns to his friend, Do you ever think perhaps we should branch out a little with names?

Bertrand laughs.

There, Napoleon smiles. That's better.

 

           

They dine on cold bread and meat. No one is in the mood for a full meal. Napoleon retreats after breakfast to his library and forbids entry to anyone with the exception of the children.

On his desk is a report from Layton. The young man, on an early morning request, had recorded in a list, all the events in the order of their occurrence beginning with May and ending on this day October 27th.

Disappearances, deaths, bits of bodies, advancing trees, marked doors and walls, wanton destruction of cattle. It strikes him, beyond being something out of the dread book Revelations, to be not unlike a campaign.

'It's when they poison the water supply that I'll worry.'

Hortense looks up. She is sitting with baby Arthur on the floor by the fire.

'Do you think they will, your majesty?'

'We cannot rule anything out.'

'What do they want?'

'I haven't the foggiest.' He says it in English to make the girl laugh. It works. He returns to the papers on the desk. A half drunk cup of coffee remains on the desk, dotting the sheets with a semi circle of brown. He pushes it off. Finds a map of Woodford and collects several of Arthur's blocks. Outlining the original plot of the Shrubbery and the growth since he finds it creating a semi circle around the village. Unsurprising, he thinks. This is nothing we cannot see.

He pushes a few away, squints at the small script on the map. Barrows, he notes. Yes, those are well known and generally harmless he assumes. They have no record of the spurts of growth so he cannot discern a pattern which worries him for there must be one. Patterns are natural. Humans act upon patterns, nature acts upon patterns, unfeeling dead-alive earth acts upon patterns. It is merely a point to discover what that pattern is.

'If you were an otherworldly fairy queen, what would you want from Woodford?'

Hortense shrugs. There is no gold here, she says. Do not fairies like gold and silver?

Indeed they do, so far as he is aware.

A road cuts through the village, past the Arbuthnot's home, the other village of Cranford, onwards towards Kettering. What is it that the Arbuthnot's have here, beyond a home and a penchant for countryside identical to that of Waterloo? There is iron ore, he knows. Arbuthnot invests in it. Projects it will become one of the largest industries of the area.

He finds the quarries. It makes no sense to him. If they were after the iron - or the stopping of the production of iron - why strike out from the Shrubbery? The idea is pushed away as irrelevant.

The meandering thoughts are interrupted by a sharp knock on the door and the entrance of the duke. Napoleon glares. Arthur waves away the look.

Without preamble, 'they've taken two more houses.'

'Who have?'

'The forest. Ah you've a map. Here,' he moves a block forward. 'Don't know why I didn't think of this. Good work.'

Napoleon rolls his eyes. Arthur claps him on the back.

'Good morning ride, your grace?'

'Brisk. Terrifying. Everything a man needs.' Arthur paces the room, rubbing his hands together. He stops, inspects what the children have been building and declares it fit for a king. Returning to the desk he sits. Broods at the map. 'I've news.'

'Not good news.'

'No. Two children have gone missing. One of them is Mrs. Topsom's niece, the other a son of one of Lowe's officers. Last night sometime, they disappeared.'

'No one saw anything? Heard anything?'

Arthur shakes his head. Napoleon lowers himself into the chair. The map useless between them. The half circle of the forest around the town reminds him of Filitosa. The trees around the stones around something that was once sacred. The Lady Georgiana had asked for a once and future king to be brought to her. Something sacred to England - to Britain of old.

'My mother swore by iron for keeping evil at bay. Iron and blood.'

'Your mother was a witch, I am convinced.'

The emperor stands, 'Speaking of witches. I think it is time we visited one.'

 

 

They have not spoken of Sunday or the dreams or anything else. Arthur spends his free time quietly trying things. In Charles' library is a copy if a silly little thing - a grimoire printed in France. Arthur reads through it but can find nothing of interest. Discreetly, he tries one of the summonings and is careful to follow directions exactly but nothing occurs. Eventually, he returns to the practice of their initial trials. He touches a window, barely any pressure, watches as the glass cracks out from his finger. Picking up an apple he holds it, watches as it begins to decay from his hand upward - crumpling in on itself. He begins to link the incidents together - touch is necessary. Intent is also necessary. A calm environment equally. This, he thinks, is not so bad. If it can be controlled -

But it cannot be, so as they walk to the Phillip's and Arthur swings his walking stick at errant shrubbery occasionally pebbles fly in interesting directions.

'Peace, man.' Napoleon hisses.

'I cannot help it.'

Rummaging in a pocket Napoleon produces a notebook and tears a scrap from it. Hands it out. Go on then, he seems to say. The duke grudgingly takes up the paper and watches as the fire begins. A branch flies past their heads. The emperor laughs.

'Better!'

'Hardly.'         

'You didn't hit me this time.'

'Wasn't aiming.'

'Arthur, you can't aim to save your life.'

Arthur rolls his eyes. Napoleon thinks the exasperated look is a good one on the other man. Taking his arms and he pulls him down the street, Come, come we haven't time to spend playing children's games with magic.

 

 

What else has been dreamed? Napoleon sometimes sees a tree next a lake. It trunk is gnarled and twisted. He is a boy, for some reason. Little Lucien is with him. As is Caroline and Pauline. No Joseph. His dream-self thinks that Joseph must be in school in Rome. This makes sense to him. Then he is suddenly back in Corsica and climbing up a tree near their house. He is towards the top, his mother is watching and she waves to him. He waves back. Holds his hands up and open as if to say, Look at me mother! Then he is down on the ground again and she tells him, collect the dried tomatoes. They are on a sheet so he picks it up in his small child hands. Each corner brought together so it forms a small case in which to carry the fruit. He brings it in. His mother says, 'You have done a good job.' And he wakes the next morning feeling proud.

Another: He is in London except London looks like Vienna. Josephine is with him and they are going to the theatre to see Julius Caesar for Eugene is an actor now. Marie Louise is Brutus and throws a letter at Eugene. Eat that piece of earth, she says. Josephine leans over to him, 'I don't remember that in the other versions I have seen.'

Another: A boar. He sees a face - the same one that had been so feint in the past except now he can make out features. He has killed the animal with a spear head. Nothing else - the spearhead alone. It is heavy in his palm and feels like iron.

Another: The spearhead is in his pocket and his father tells him no weapons at the table. They are sitting in Versailles and the family is all together. Except Joseph. Still in school in Rome. An odd continuity, the emperor will think when he wakes. Napoleon places the spearhead on the floor and suddenly he cannot see. Or he can, but it is very blurry. He rubs his eyes over and over and still nothing clears. It becomes apparent to him that he must, indeed, be able to see because something is going to happen to everyone and he will need his eyes to act but he cannot clear them. They are fogged over, blurred as if with water. He rubs more. Things are happening. He thinks he is being blamed for the theft of his uncle's apples. Somehow, he finds the spearhead and places it in his pocket. It is then that he thinks, I am dreaming right now. This is a dream. He still cannot see. He wakes. Gasps.

The last was the dream of Monday night. It lingers in the back of his mind as he teases Arthur about Harriet and whatever else comes to mind. They are walking to Mary's and the lanes of Woodford are empty.

 

 

'Have you ever not been able to see in dreams? As if your eyes have a something over them? Like cheese cloth or fine muslin?'

'No. I've fallen in dreams, though. And flown. One time I drowned in the Channel but then became my brother Richard and read Kitty's letters to my dead self. My Richard self was going to write a monograph about my Arthur self. If that makes sense.' Arthur frowns. 'Why?'

'Just wondering.'

 

 

They find Mary in the garden. It looks little different from May. Low branches of a willow, the feeling of silence and heaviness as they make their way to the doctor's wife.

'You're early,' she peers up at them from below her hat brim. 'I was expecting you tomorrow.'

Sitting himself without leave, Napoleon tuts. 'Your tea leaves are wrong, then.'

'No. Perhaps you will come again. You may come again on Thursday and tell me if they were wrong or no. Please, your grace, take a seat. We do not stand on formality here.'

Arthur glances between Mary and Napoleon. Napoleon bats away her hands from her tea cup and takes it, turning it over and humming to himself. The intimacy is striking. He wonders if Dr. Phillips knows.

'I see a pyramid,' Napoleon says. Mary purses her lips. 'But as I am here that is no surprise.' He turns the cup this way and that, tilts it forward and back. 'Pauline was always better at this than I.'        

The cup is handed to Arthur to inspect. He sees tea leaves. Says as much. Mary laughs. Not everyone, she says, is gifted with sight. But mostly, yes, I just see tea leaves and nothing else.

Mary snaps her fingers and Napoleon freezes as something emerges from the house. It is much like Geogriana - the fearsome empty eyes staring out behind a face he does not recognize. The cracks in the skin, the nails that are like claws. It walks over carrying a tray and only then does he see the iron around its wrists. He turns to Mary, horrified but she is not looking at him, instead minding a small book Arthur has procured from his pocket.

'These grimoires and kabbalahs are of little use to us.'

The creature sets the cups down. Napoleon sees Arthur look up and note the inhuman servant with barely a glance.

Mary, 'the problem being that magic does not rely on the dualistic Christian understanding of the world that many of these authors were, and are, operating under. See, here, with the version you have your grace, this ah - teacher, spiritual Bedouin leader - is assuming that magic and summing and things one _will_ summon fit into what Christianity knows, or thinks it knows, to exist. So, you can summon angels and demons and spirits of the deceased, and apparently,' she turns a few pages, laughs, 'and apparently a black hen which will provide you with treasure. How quaint. But of course, magic is older that Christ Himself so what use is all of this to us?'

Napoleon watches as the creature-servant retreats to the house. Mary continues to speak of how one uses magic but he cannot mind her words for the burning that begins to drip down his face. He thinks the others ought to make note, at least the duke who is always looking at him, but no. Not a word. He closes his eyes, wills it away. It goes no where.

'Boiling water helps,' Mary interjects. The emperor feels a glass placed in his hand.

'How did you-'

'You were looking peaky, as my husband would say.'

'No, that thing-'

'A little jaundiced about the edges. Or that could be your complexion. Hard to tell with foreigners.'

The water boils.

'Really, though,' she continues. 'It's much more akin to to Macbeth's three witches and their arcane and occult practices than anything like what Dee and other grimoire authors imagined.'

Taking up the tea cup she plucks a hair out and drops it in then reaches down for a few pebbles. She rotates the cup about clockwise then counter clockwise in her palms then pours it into a clear glass of water. Looking into it she exclaims, 'La! There. Look.'

Arthur does do, contemplating the swirling leaves and pebbles he finds he can see three figures—as if he were a bird over them. Peering closer he recognizes his own hat and coat, Mrs. Philip's shawl, Bonaparte's lounging figure. Wordlessly he passes it over to the emperor who says after a moment, 'I'm never cutting my hair again if this can be done with it.'

Mary laughs, This is quite advanced but it is to demonstrate the nature of magic beyond lighting candles and tossing pebbles with great force and less aim.

'But what does this have to do with the Shrubbery?' Napoleon asks.

'What do you remember from your time in there?'

The emperor recounts his adventure leaving no detail out, to Arthur's annoyance for when the moment of "Once and Future King" is mentioned Mary pierces him with a firm stare. He says he cannot account for it, his family has no royalty in it and the only thing he has in common with the mythical man is a shared name. Mary nods, adjusts her shawl, turns back to Bonaparte.

'Her exact words were as you reported? That she wanted something to return and required the mythical king for it to occur?'

'Yes, so far as I can remember.'

'As I have understood it, magic almost like an element. Galin and Hipocrates wrote of four elements and from them four humours and temperaments with which a person's health and understanding can be fixed. Magic is not unlike that in that it affects all things and can be found in the smallest blades of grass to the largest animals. However, like the elements, in some people it manifests itself to a greater extent than others. In the way that I am of a melancholic disposition and therefore have a greater amount of black bile, the earth element, than anything else. Similarly, I have a great deal of magic, even before the recent ah...release? It also tends to run in a family, again like humours.'

Arthur, 'but how is it that we have never seen it before? In all my years I have never seen what I have witnessed these last few weeks.'

'The tide returns.'

A shared look of confusion between duke and former-emperor.

'Magic, as it was explained to me by my mother, comes in waves and tides. So it comes in for many years then pulls away for many.'

'Does it always feel like fire? For those afflicted by it?'

She laughs at the work 'afflicted'. 'No,' the answer is drawn out. ' _That_ is curious. But it is hard to say. It could be normal. My mother said that the last time we had a great tide was before the fall of Rome.'

'So long? Well, the history books will need re-working then. I'm assuming Caesar enchanted his way across the Rubicon then.'

She laughs, Hardly. Well, perhaps. No way to know is there?

Napoleon asks, But the creatures in the forest? Have they always been there?

'Most likely, it is only now that magic is a good deal stronger than it was they can advance in such ways. As we have seen,' a wave to the distant tree line. 'I believe Georgiana called them.' Her hand trails from the hem of her shawl to her stomach. 'A shame that it back fired against her so.'

'Is there a way to defeat them?'

'Ah! Military men—always must find the fight. To defeat the faie?'

Arthur snorts, 'fairies? They do not sound like fairies. Are they not supposed to be small mischievous creatures?'

'Some are. These are not. And _defeat_ them? No. Contain them? Perhaps.'

From across the garden the sound of Dr. Philips' gig comes to them signifying his end of rounds for the day. With lightning speed Mary grabs both their hands—to Napoleon her grip is the earth, cool soil, the rough dryness of rock—come back in three days and we shall see what we can do to save Woodford.

'Promise me! Three days!'

Both men nod. They promise on their honour. She releases their hands, gathers her shawl tight around her shoulders and fades back into the doctor's wife.

 

On the way home Arthur says, So, she _is_ a witch. And I do not know about this hereditary magic nonsense. There is _none_ in my family, I am sure. _Your_ mother though.

Napoleon's smile is serene as the Virgin Mary's and Arthur complains about the obnoxious ambivalence of the French.

'Her maid is one of the faie.'

The duke starts. By Jove! Is she now? The eye of yours is handy. Do you think Mrs. Philips is playing an elaborate game?

'No. I believe she is in earnest.'

'Well, _you_ would know.'

A sharp look. Their walk continues in silence.

 

Back in the library with two cups of chocolate the emperor rests a hand on the back of the duke's neck. Their forehead's touch. There must be another way to do this, Arthur thinks. Another way to make the magic _less._

At the moment he cannot think of a way and the absence of a constant fire-numbness is gratifying. A gentle release of muscles that had been tense for far too long.

He breathes out, sinks forward, drops his head onto Napoleon's shoulder. Thinks the emperor has a comfortable body. Soft yet steady. Like a rock. He allows himself to be pulled onto his feet and led to bed.  


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I believe there are a few reading this not for the Napolington but merely because it has Wellesley and/or Bonaparte. If so, read this bit until they get out of the river then you can give the rest of the chapter a miss.

Naturally, even with someone beside him the dreams come. They are exquisite torture. He wants to remain in them, a small part of his mind telling himself that it is what he deserves for all he has done, but mostly - he wants to see the faces of those now lost to him. Even if it is all anger and fear and failure.

In one, Murat drowns in Constantine wine and Lannes asks him, How would you rate the quality of his death on a scale with ten being here and zero being there? He replies that he would give it a nine. Then he is in a room he has never seen before and Caroline is before him holding one of Murat's uniform coats. She wraps it around her thin shoulders and it hangs loose for she is small and he was large. She says that it was a cowardly thing to do and of course Joachim _would_ but now she is so angry at him and all she wants to do is be able to mourn her lover but cannot because she is also mourning her brother and her kingdom and everyone all at once. All she wants is to cry for Joachim as she should but cannot for she must weep for all the other things and persons and possibilities and could haves first. All she wants is for his death to not have been so childish, so selfish but cannot. 'I will not think it a good death, as you do brother.'

He begins to explain his dream-reasoning but wakes before he can finish. His chest feels like a sucking wound. An impulse to write to Caroline seizes him but he discards it.

What is there to say?

_My dear sister, I saw your dead husband, my dead brother, in a dream and I could not stop you from weeping and drowning yourself in tears that are more bitter and more harsh than cold Atlantic._

He can see Caroline now. She would probably curse him and his birth and their family and then burn the letter.

 

Some people leave behind scar tissue when they die. Some people carve it into the flesh of the living with every breath taken.

 

Napoleon wants to exercise these thoughts but cannot think of a way. He allows himself to drift back to sleep.

 

It is Arthur who wakes next and promptly stuffs his face into a pillow. There the smell of orange and sandalwood collides and he knows he is not in his usual bed. Beside him, a person is sprawled. The emperor, he knows. Snoring and taking up too much space and hogging the blankets. It's like sleeping with an entire army. Why, Arthur thinks, Am I always on the defensive with him? From battles to friendship to bed space.

This, he knows, is not what he had intended. Although nothing had occurred, this room was one he had intended to never return to in such a manner. Rolling over and sitting up he surveys the surroundings and finds himself in mere shirtsleeves - the remainder of his clothes folded neatly on a chair. The room is as Spartan as ever. The only new appearance being an iron dagger resting upon the mantle-piece next to the miniature of Napoleon's son. Sliding off the bed he goes to inspect the piece, turning it over in his hand and feeling that he ought to know it.

He looks to the man still asleep then back to the dagger. Perhaps the Barrows, he reasons. Napoleon had evinced an interest in them from time to time.

The weight of the object is striking for it is at once light and heavy. In the way that it is quite cool yet warm. Not fire, but certainly a steady heat. A stone that has been in the sun and so pleasant. Replacing it he wonders if he should have touched it for now it seems sacred, for no other reason than that it is wholly plain and unnoticeable barring the fact that it is alone upon the mantelpiece apart from the ever-present miniature. Pushing it from his mind, for he has enough mysteries to satisfy even the most curious of men for a lifetime, he dresses himself and slips from the room to the guest quarters where he does his best to make it appear slept in.

 

 

Magic is older than any faith. This is known. Although this is the year of our Lord 1818 and so an age of science and reason amongst the fringes of the world rears the head of occultism. Even in iron bound London it can be found hidden in the cracks of cobblestones, the shift and slip of ancient buildings. The tide of the Thames, the pulling of it beneath an Englishman's feet, is an old faith. The lives and lives and lives lived as the city builds itself upon itself, head consuming its own tale, is a magic of its own. And, truly, superstition never _actually_ leaves a society - merely takes another form, another name.

Odysseus met a woman who turned his men into animals. She was a witch. The Bible says that thou must not suffer a witch to live. Augustine speaks of both. He writes of Circe and the wolf-men of the Arcadians. There is also Demaenetus who ate from the sacrifice to Zeus and so was transformed into a wolf for nine years. There are angry Italian women who turn travellers into mules and asses. A more recent Circe perhaps. A man in the tenth century wrote of women cavorting with Diana in a countless horde of women 'in the silence of the dead of the night'. Even in more recent centuries the church worried about fountain worship and incantations of the dead and omens and the worship of elm trees and stones and phantoms.

And who is to blame? Demons, mostly. But what they are working, is that not magic? What is the difference between miracle, magic and evil? King James I made no distinction. All magic workers are guilty of the same evil deeds contradicting the Word and Will of God. Yet this is too hard a point to hold true. For, sometimes the three intertwine and curve in upon themselves and so discerning the division becomes a case of parsing linked strings of causation. A fifteenth century writer posits that only Christian magic is worthy of consumption.

Therein lies the crutch, Fanny thinks, for what are _we_ dealing with _here_? Where do faie and this forest come in to Reuchlin's _De verbo mirifico_? How do you read your world-view against something so different and alien?

For Fanny magic is something else entirely. She disregards almost all that has been written on the subject, and she knows that thus far most people involved in the Woodford affair have done so as well. John Dee, the emperor had informed her, and Marsilio Ficino and scores of others— _useless._ But for her, even when comparing to those around her, it is different. Alien. On yes, there is still the warmth that all appear to experience, but also a feeling as if she is flying then sheer exhaustion.

Today, she attempts to burn scrap paper and other simple things as the gentlemen have been doing but finds she cannot. She sits at her writing desk, paper in hand, with still bed-bound Bertrand watching.

Nothing.

She attempts with a sliver of kindling.

Nothing.

Giving in she takes out a match.

There! Some smolders. It blackens, a semblance of an ember to be seen, then nothing. However frustrating these trials are, she cannot deny that she feels it, sees it even, for the air has texture that she has never known before. She had asked the emperor if he could see it, for she knew he could see the faie even through their magic and glamour, he shook his head. No. He cannot. But snappoed that he did not believe it to be necessary for anything. Why do you need to see the magic if you can make it do your bidding, regardless?

Colours, Fanny finds, are more intense. Taste is overwhelming. Touch, incandescent. Whenever Henri takes her hand, especially the burnt one, she wishes to shout. He laughs, releases it, then looks at her fondly.

'Ever the special one, Fanny.'

'Hardly. Now, sit back and take your medicine as the doctor has instructed.'

'I am beginning to take the emperor's view of doctors and medicine.'

'Because he is a pillar of health.'

'Well, he survived Russia.'

'That had nothing to do with his disregard for physicians, I am sure.'

The medicine is swallowed with great theatrics. She touches his cheek, gingerly, feels nothing unusual so fully cups his face. She can remember the dimmest facts about the night she revived him and wishes to know it all. 'Magic' is the cryptic response she always receives when she asks. Philips only provides vague attempts at the rational.

'How he still natters on about science makes me question his rational abilities,' Albine had said one day after his checkup on Bertrand. Fanny cannot disagree.

Truly, she thinks, I do not mind the magic and whatever it is this world has seen fit to grace me with. Only, I wish it did not make Albine hate me _more_ than she already does. She pauses, admits that she does not much like Albine herself, and so ought not to resent the doubling coolness between them.

'I am to see Lady Arbuthnot today,' she says gathering up her attempts at magic. 'We are going to compare notes.'

'That sounds a capital plan my dear.' His eyes are sad. He reaches for her hand but remembers himself and drops it to the bed. She kisses his forehead, murmurs against hair that he is only confined for a little while longer. Then may go about as he pleases. In the hall is the stomping of Montholon and Wellington's boots. Elsewhere the emperor yells at them to hurry up. Failures of military men if they are late!

A knock.

'Yes?'

Montholon sticks his head around the door. 'We are going for a ride. Survey the nightly damage. Maybe speak to some people. Lady Arbuthnot wants to bring baskets around. Do you think Henri is up for a ride? The emperor says that the outdoors will do him good. We're only going through the village.'

'The emperor would suggest a fifteen mile brisk ride to someone suffering from pneumonia.' Behind her Bertrand is already swinging his feet to the floor. He grins at her, 'Philips said a week in bed, it's been six days - or thereabouts - I believe I can handle a ride through Woodford.'

She rolls her eyes, Fine. But I'm not bringing you back with magic if you proceed to collapse off your horse.

'No fear my duck, I shan't do something as silly as that.'

 

Later, with a crystal bowl of clear water in her palms and focusing on a memory—the fire in the embassy—she notices the magic.

It curls around, the air looking gauzy, heavy, and sinks over the edges of the bowl into the water. The liquid swirls then stills. Within the stillness there is a fog clearly and she can see Marie Louise, it must be the present for she is older than Fanny remembers her being, and she is in a building she has never seen before with a man she cannot recall. They are speaking low and close to each other. The man kisses her knuckles, an intimate gesture of a lover. Then the image vanishes and she is seeing Mrs. Topsom's parlour and there is everyone! The emperor and his grace both looking uncomfortable. The Arbuthnots and Henri all sympathy. Montholon between the two. She thinks, Show me my daughter. There! La! Hortense in her room with little Henri and Arthur. Hortense turns to look at her, gasps and points, 'Mama is in the mirror!'

She drops the bowl with a gasp.

 

 

 

Setting out for the village Harriet explains to the other riders, 'We've written to Lord Liverpool and Charles wishes to send a full and complete report. So we are taking stock of recent damages ensuring all information sent to Liverpool is as up to date as possible.'

'The most disturbing to me are the recent children abductions,' Montholon says. 'To think they can enter our homes. Chilling.'

 

Mrs. Topsom is their first port of call and they arrive to find Batley already present alongside a few of the local matrons. They are shown in and refreshments serviced.

Harriet, 'I am so sorry to hear about your niece, Mrs. Topsom.'

The older woman nods and pats Harriet's hand but the usual enthusiasm is lacking.

'How old is she?'

'Just a girl. Just a wee thing. Seven years old with pretty curls.' She pauses. Swallows. 'Lily.' She looks up to the ceiling in great concentration. Swallows again. 'I know,' she breaths out. 'I know what everyone thinks of me. Silly, old woman whose husband left her. Silly, old woman with a habit for gossip and too much sherry at dinner. No-no my dear, I do not deny it. Silly, forlorn, gossiping old woman I may be but _stupid_ I am not. But, despite all of that and all that happened between me and Mr. Topsom I cannot help but wish him back through that door right now for he would take a musket and show those _creatures_ what for.' She stops. Her lips a thin line and she knows that her face is wet and she is close to raving mad but she finds she doesn't care. Before she begins to cry in earnest she flashes a smile, hoarsely whispers, 'I am not sad my dear Lady Arbuthnot, merely _very_ angry and can do not but cry for it.' Then—the damn bursts. She leaves the room. The group is silent. What is there to say?

 

 

How do you take children who are safe in their beds within houses of locked doors and bolted windows and lavender by the gate and salt on the front stoop? How do you take children who sleep with horseshoes above the door and iron fire grates and watchful, light sleeping parents?

 

 

With the next bowl of water Fanny shows herself her own room which is empty. With trepidation she dips the tip of her finger in, nothing happens, then the rest of her hand. In the bowl it appears as if the hand is reaching forward into the room from nothing. Her entire forearm ought not to fit yet it does.

She jerks back. Discovers her skin to be dry. Without further thought she plunges her entire arm, up to her shoulder, into the bowl. Her head follows and she finds herself in a space of grey with shadows that look not unlike trees. It feels like a dream for it has that same unreal, unfeeling quality of the landscape of dreams. Her heart races. She sees a glimpse of her bedroom and thrusts her hand forward into it. Gripping hard she pulls the rest of herself through landing with a hard thud, dress over her head and petticoat askew. Yanking the gown down she sees herself in the mirror. She is in her room and looking at herself. She touches the glasses. Nothing.

The mirror is a beautiful one with an oak frame that had belonged to her grandmother. It does not appear very beautiful now.

 

 

When Harriet returns to _le petit Versailles_ with the rest of the party she expects to have a quiet tea with Albine and Fanny whilst the men play billiards at both Arthur and Montholon's insisting then perhaps an early supper with a few games to follow to lighten the mood and distract from the grim reality outside the safety of the house—essentially, the usual pattern of events when visiting the French in Woodford.

Instead, she is grabbed by Fanny and Albine in the hallway.

'You do not have children here in Woodford do you, madame?'

She is shaken—No! She does not. Charles' children by his first are in Town, currently, and no one is expected until December should they choose to winter here. And they are more adult than children.

'There are no children alone in Woodford Hall?' Fanny's grip is tight. Nails digging through fabric.

'No!'

'His grace's boys?'

'At school. Or with Kitty, Arthur?'

'At school, ladies. I received letters from them both the other day.'

'Good. Send around to all you know. It's the mirrors. They are coming in through the mirrors.'

Harriet, 'what are you speaking of?'

'The children who have gone missing—find out if they have mirrors in their homes. In their rooms. I am sure they all will.'

Bertrand, having gone in search of his own, now appears with all the children - Charles, Helene, Triston, little Napoleon, Hortense, Henri, and baby Arthur. They are a mixed collection of shaken and excited. Hortense is wearing the emperor's consular coat. She has a brave face on and is holding a wooden sword. Beneath it all is her pretty green frock.

The emperor, putting his coat back on, asks if all the mirrors have been covered. Albine nods, Yes all of them.

'Doors secured? Windows?'

'Yes, sire.'

'Everyone into the billiard room, it has no windows. Bertrand, tell the servants to shut themselves in the kitchen. Plenty of iron in there. Inform my gardener!'

'Your gardener, sire?'

'Flint is a sturdy fellow and knows about these things. Have him join the staff inside.'

Above them a crash is heard. They freeze for a second then Montholon and Albine shoo the brood down the hall into the billiard room. Casting about he notices the fire poker and taking it up he hands it to Albine.

'Do not flinch, my dear. Do not think twice. Do not look them in the eye.'

She looks at the poker and once it is in her hands cannot look at him. She can see the sword by his side. She know he has seen action. It has never weighed in her hand as it does now.

 

He rejoins the others in the hall. Pistols have been procured and two more fire pokers. Harriet frowns at them.

'Iron,' Arthur shrugs. 'We doubt swords will do much against them.'

Napoleon motions, 'we will break into two parties. One to go up the back stairs to the first floor and another to go up the main. Unless they plan to jump out a window we will have them. Bertrand, myself and his grace I think for the main staircase. The back one is narrow and so two should do - Montholon and Lord Arbuthnot. Will that do?'

An uneasy moment follows as Harriet and Fanny leave to join Albine in the billiard room. Napoleon takes the silence as agreement with the plan and ushers everyone on their way.

 

Everything appears normal as the groups make their respective ways up the stairs. Dusk is settling in so shadows become deeper, longer, yet remain nothing to jump over.

Arthur wonders how Madame Bertrand discovered that the faie were coming in through the mirrors. But it _does_ account for the creatures Hortense and her brothers had seen. The fuzzy men. Although, the prospect of these _things_ traveling the length and breadth of England and peering in at people's most intimate goings-ons sickens the duke. Who are they to have such powers over us? Such abilities beyond God's own creations?

In one of the musty tomes Montholon had procured for Napoleon Arthur had read that the faie could certainly exist, if not necessarily so, since we humans can imagine them therefore so can God. Yet, did God create them? Are they part of His plan even though they, by their nature, subvert the entire thing?

They are not evil, one writer proclaimed. Nor are they good. They are inhuman and so not subject to the laws that govern out too infallible flesh.

Were they here before the Fall? Did original sin touch them? Are they angels? Are they completely outside of God's realm? Or is that blasphemy to think. He assumes it probably is. Having no answers Arthur decides that he must put it to his brother Gerald once all is complete. Batley is well and good for a country cleric but for the theology behind faie Arthur wants only his brother to answer for he trusts him to be brutally blunt about the matter.

There are mysteries upon mysteries in this world that mankind cannot explain. The nature of the sun, the foundation of the earth, the large bones of unknown creatures farmers discover upon occasion, the wonders of the deep oceans. Is it any surprise then that there are creatures yet undiscovered?

That they would not eventually be brought to heel, that the situation would not eventually be sorted had never occurred to him. It could not, for then he would be admitting defeat and that was not something he could do at this moment.

The rooms they check are all empty. Nothing disturbed, nothing out of the ordinary. Until they arrive at the door to Bertrand's room. It is ajar. Bertrand pushes it open and stands back.

Nothing.

A mirror broken on the floor and water underneath it but little else to signify disturbance, although that alone is enough for them. Stepping in Napoleon goes to the fallen mirror and picks it up. Water gushes out, muddy and stinking and warm. Then he feels his hand being tugged into the device. It jerks into the space where wood ought to be—Napoleon looks back to the other men.

'Run.'

Too late. The entire room lurches forward and the five find themselves seeing the glass shards scattered like stars across the floor then suddenly gasping for breath and attempting to swim and everything dark around them.

Pin pricks of light develop above them. Flickering yellows, blues, purples, greens. Floating off in the distance then near then far again.

'Lights, sire!' Montholon's voice, somewhere behind Napoleon, is heard.

Bertrand's rough answer of 'do not follow them!' is to his left.

'Lord Arbuthnot?' Napoleon asks.

'This is _not_ what I signed up for.' Ahead of him.

'Wellesley?'

'What?' Also ahead of him.

'Just making sure we're all here and accounted for.'

They continue floating-swimming with the current. Perhaps they ought to hold onto one another? Bertrand suggests. This is agreed to and, not without some difficulty, they manage to all connect.

For a decent interval there is only the sound of water and laboured breathing. Occasionally a splash. But no nature, no wind, no sound but them. The air continues to be still. From their position Napoleon cannot fathom the width of the river and any attempt they make for what they assume to be one side or another is unsuccessful. Depth, too, is unknowable. The emperor decides to not think about what may be lurking beneath.

It is during these thoughts that he hears bells. Arthur, who is holding on to him, tenses.

'Those are the bells I've heard before,' he whispers.

'You've heard them before?' Charles, down the chain, asks.

'A few days ago.'

'And you didn't tell me? Did you tell Harriet at least?'

'No. I'm sorry. Things were busy. It slipped my mind.'

'Perhaps we should follow them,' Montholon suggests.

'You know, I didn't bring you along for your intelligence, Montholon, but that was rather stupid even for you.'

'My apologies, sire.'

'If we weren't floating in a probably bewitched river you'd have a bigger piece of my mind to ruminate upon.'

'Of course, sire.'

Arthur sort-of nudges Napoleon's shoulder. He gets splashed for the effort.

At this moment the river's current grows steadily faster and maintaining the chain increases in difficulty until Arthur decides going in twos might be easier. They break apart. The water becomes cool where as before it had been perfectly warm and with this cooling comes another increase in speed of the current. Struggling to stay afloat in boots and wool clothes takes hold and Arthur goes under for a moment to lose his riding coat and frock. He surfaces again, gasping. Somewhere ahead of him he hears Napoleon lament the loss of yet another coat to the fairy world.

Just as Arthur begins to think his boots as being expendable the river slows down. A soft dawn light begins and he can see trees along the banks. Thick branches hanging over head with grey string-like plants drooping down. Turning in the water he locates the others. Bertrand, he can see, is farther back and clearly flagging.

'Should we go to the shore now that we can see it?' He suggests.

No verbal agreement is made but the group beings a slow journey to the riverbank. Finding roots and branches to hug onto in exhaustion they manage to haul themselves up onto dry ground.

'I am _never_ going swimming again,' Charles gasps as he flops backwards with arms out, panting. 'Arthur, where the devil are we?'

'No idea. I've never seen trees like this before.'

'Oaks,' Bertrand says. 'But not English oaks. There were pines, or what I think are pines, across the river and I can also see elms and Lord, is that indigo?'

Napoleon, 'I see a few olive trees behind us. Which ought not to be.'

'How do you mean?' Charles asks.

'When have you ever heard of olive, pine, elm and oak trees all growing together?'

Arthur says, 'well, the only thing for it is to keep moving. We won't find a way home sitting here.'

No one answers. Another few minutes of rest occur before the group stands and begins to walk following the river as best they can and ignoring the incessant bells in the not-too-far distance.

 

 

Harriet, by the fireplace, 'they've been gone for too long. Something is the matter.'

Albine, 'I'm sure they're fine. These things take time. It always feels longer than it has been in truth.'

Fanny, restless, watches the children roll billiard balls across the floor. The clock is ticking but there is no time to be kept for it is no where near three - either afternoon or morning. She adjusts her shawl. Fidgets in the chair.

'Perhaps we should check,' she finally suggests.

'That seems like an unadvisable plan,' Albine says.

'Would you have us sit here in the semi-dark like fools, then? Doing nothing? Fine, you remain with the children. They must be guarded anyway. But I am going out.' Taking a pool cue she heads for the door.

Harriet swiftly stands and says she will come as well. To Albine she says, 'lock yourself in. We will knock four times like thus,' she demonstrates. 'Only then should you open the door.'

Growing pale Albine nods, her fingers clenched around the poker with knuckles whiter than her dress.

'Lady Arbuthnot-'

'I think you can call me Harriet by now.'

'Harriet, that this,' she thrusts the poker forward. 'You may well need it. Don't flinch.'

'No, thank you, but I loath to leave you unarmed. We will find another pair. Remember the knock.'

Stepping forward Albine places a hand on Fanny's arm. She tells her to be safe. Fanny nods, slowly, and returns the sentiment. They part and the door closes. Fanny and Harriet wait until they hear the key turn. Then, it is down the hall to the emperor's study for its poker then on to the music room for yet another. The pool cue is discarded beside the pianoforte.

 

Deciding on the main staircase they ascend with weapons raised. The house is fully in shadow now that night is come. Each creak and groan, natural in any old building, sends shivers down their spines.

At the landing Fanny motions Harriet behind her. There it is, in her mind, the magic. The way it warps the air around it. How, indeed, it is almost heavier than air itself. Sinking through the ether to the hallway floor. She can see where it exited her room and went across to the Montholons'. Mingling betwixt this dense magic is something lighter. Sparks from flint lock, scatters of embers or so the magic appears to her. She assumes it must be either the emperor or his grace.

The door to her room is open and she and Harriet gasp for across the floor is thick, muddy water and shards of the broken mirror. Beside it are two pistols—one the duke's, another Bertrand's. The two women lift the mirror but find no other trace of the gentlemen.

'Quick,' Fanny says. 'Gather up all the glass. We must cover it.'

With feet and soon bloodied hands they gather the shards as best they can into a sheet and place it in the fire grate with the bedpan atop it. Iron above and so below. For added measure Harriet covers the entire pile with yet another sheet.

Exiting the room Fanny motions down to the Montholons' door. 'In there,' she mouths. Harriet's face sets to grim determination. The layers of magic become stronger, thicker, more evident. There is of course the fire and the heavy weighted magic of the original intruder but within that something from the earth, _of_ the earth. Loamy soil, sandy grit, rich clay. It too has gone into the Montholons' room. Raising pokers so they are ready the women push open the door.

At first it is the light that shocks them. Fire, Harriet's mind screams. The house is on fire and we can hardly go outside lest we be devoured by the forest!

Then she sees the candles and the roaring fire in the grate. The entire room radiates hear. Consuming, welcoming, frightening.

From the furniture branches have sprouted. Leaves unfurling, virgin buds stretching forth from dead, artificial tree. No more the wooden floors and oriental concepts that Albine so favours but instead dirt, earth, even wildflowers underfoot.

Harriet and Fanny stand agog upon the threshold. They do not know what to look at first—the floor, the forest exploding from furniture and walls, the dancing flames.

Amidst all stands Mary Philips, an iron dagger in hand. Her hair is down, her dress ragged and blood stained.

'Hello,' she greets. Mary stands in the centre of a circle made of bones and feathers and salt. Unmoving, at her feet, is a servant. Fanny thinks that she has seen the girl before—yes, she is, was, Mary's maid.

'Mrs. Philips,' Fanny starts.

'My apologies about the intrusion. Madame de Montholon will not notice when I am done, you have my assurance.'

'Madame, Mary, may I ask, just _what_ are you doing?'

'Testing a theory. Is his grace around? Perhaps the emperor?'

'No. No, we're not sure where they are at the moment.'

Mary nods, Of course. They're rash. They probably went in the mirror. By the way, how did you figure out your clever trick, my lady?'

Harriet looks to Fanny, 'what trick?'

'I'll explain later. What theory are you testing and should we perhaps help your poor maid?'

Beneath the girl's body the earth is wet and dark. Both Fanny and Harriet assume they know what it is.

'Maid? Oh.' Mary looks down to the figure at her feet. 'You cannot see her? I must fix that for you.' Reaching down she picks the body up by its hair and, carefully slicing along the side of the girl's neck whilst mouthing inaudible words, the skin of the maid falls away revealing the creature beneath. 'My theory is how best to kill them, or failing that, contain them.'

'In our house.'

'This was an unintended side effect. Magic has a lot of those. But you can help me. Stoke the fire.'

'But what is your clever trick?' Harriet asks once the shock of seeing the thing fades.

'I went through a bowl of water and came out of my bedroom mirror. I know not how I managed it, just that it happened.' To Mary, 'do you know where my husband is?'

Mary, now standing astride the creature and making careful incisions, nods. Oh yes, he'll be by shortly. Someone in that group has an excellent sense of direction towards home.

'Well it's not Arthur or Charles,' Harriet murmurs.

'Nor Montholon or Henri. I wouldn't think the emperor either.'

Mary shrugs, 'the man does work with bees.' She holds up a mass of flesh covered in wine-black blood. 'Voilà! The heart.' She places it down in the circle and steps back over the creature to begin on its head. 'My theory is that we must burn it all separately. Heart, head, and body.'

In the distance there are voices, whispered, incomprehensible at first but growing more familiar.

_'I really think we ought to have turned up that path back there.'_

_'Follow the river, Wellesley. That is common sense.'_

_'Turn here, I think.'_

_'Thank you Lord Arbuthnot. See, your friend agrees with me.'_

_'I can't imagine why.'_

_'La! Such lack of faith.'_

The voices fade away. Fanny and Harriet exchange a glance. Mary, apparently ignoring them, rolls the fairy's head into a sack. The heart is handed over to Fanny who quickly puts it in the fire. The flames crackle, grow in size, turn blue, purple, green then burn a fierce golden yellow.

When the fire returns to its normal measure Mary smiles, 'thank you. I will take care of the rest of it on my own. Three separate fires are needed, after all. I will leave you now.'

Harriet steps forward, 'wait! Wait. What of the thing that broke through the mirror? Where is that?'

'Oh. That was my maid who is as you see her.'

They look at the remains.

'Ugly things aren't they? Grey hide. Not attractive. Hence the glamour and penchant for borrowing, if one may call it that, human appearances. Mirrors. Very dangerous.' Her smile grows larger. It is hungry and half-mad. 'You can forget where you are when you're in one. Whether you are in land of mirrors or dreams or fairy is difficult to say. My mother speculated that they were all one in the same. Which in turn, makes mirrors within dreams _especially_ dangerous. I will depart, now. Do not worry, my ladies, your erstwhile adventurers will be home soon.'

The trees and flowers and bushes surge forward, wrap themselves around the women, the heat grows so intense as to suffocate, then oh they are in water gasping for breath, then earth warm around them—nothing.

Fanny opens her eyes. She is lying on the floor of the hall just outside of the Montholons' bedroom. Harriet groans and rolls over.

'I feel worse than the morning after the last ball hosted by the Prince Regent and Duke of Clarence.'

On the floor between them is the iron dagger, now completely clean. Gingerly Harriet picks it up. They decide to leave it in the library and return to Albine bringing the scotch.

 

 

Between dream and waking is a twilight that allows for slippage. Slippage of worlds, of people, of memories. A person can wake and wonder if they had done something or merely dreamt it. A memory can form that feels so real it may as well have happened. There is a semblance of reality that allows them to encompass truth and create further aspects of ourselves that are both necessarily outside of our control and completely within.

 

 _Entrails have long been a means of recording future events. Even in this modern, enlightened period there remain those who believe in reading the future of the living through the remains of the dead. On Corsica they are dream hunters and are associated with death. They are called_ _I Mazzeri._

 

 

The river widens as the men trudge on. Across the water there are scenes being played out for their interest, their horror, their entertainment. There are Arthur's sons in their respective classes over-layed with Kitty who is in bed and ill. She is hugging her pillow and her eyes are squeezed shut but the pain is evident. The boys are unaware. Arthur is unaware - _had been_ unaware. He thinks that he had not known she was ill. There are letters back in Woodford Hall bearing her handwriting and currently unopened. He is not used to feeling guilty when thinking on his wife and finds it decidedly uncomfortable.

Following this there is a young boy with blond hair and grey-blue eyes sitting next to Emperor Francis. He is smiling and holding a book. Arthur has never seen Napoleon's face as it looks now. Thunderous, raw, the furies of the gods yet so, so wounded. Bertrand says, They are playing with us sire, come.

Next, a young woman in Constantinople. This has the feeling of a memory rather than the present and she is clearly dying and asking for her father.

Charles freezes.

Over and over and over again she is asking for her father. A man takes her hand, He isn't here my love. You cannot see him. Then there is Harriet and she is surrounded by fire. Next to her is Fanny. Little Hortense alone in the dark. Albine holding a baby girl and weeping over her body.

The scenes stop. A boar stands upon the opposite shore, behind it the shade of the still living Madame Mere. She is holding a blindfold then turns into a tree beside which is a large stone. A boat appears in the water—small, white washed wood, with red velvet seats pricked with gold. While a small vessel it is clearly fit for royalty. Arthur can imagine Anne Boleyn riding upon it to the tower. Or it could be a funeral pyre for a heathen king of old.

A good thing she had a small neck, he thinks. He stares at it some more, he feels Napoleon grip his arm, for who else has a grip of iron and steel and unmoving granite?

'We must keep moving. It is as Bertrand says, they are playing with us.'

He turns away but Napoleon does not let go of him.

After a while, time not appearing to move beyond twilight, they came upon a clearing. A figure stands holding a shard of broken glass. A mirror it becomes clear. At first she is unrecognizable but then she speaks and they know her to be Mary Philips.

'Take this.'

No one moves.

'Come now, gentlemen. Do not keep a lady waiting.'

Her dress is bloodied, the petticoats beneath muddied. Her feet are bare and blue from the cold. With slow steps Napoleon moves to take the shard from her hands. She laughs. It is shrill, a bird call, it echoes through the trees. They all step back. Their skin crawls with the noise. She prowls after them. 'That is it,' she crows. 'Back to the water. Back to the water with all of you. Back to the water if you know what is good for you!'

They fall back. The mirror shard slips from fingers, plunges into the muddy deep and they follow quickly after.

 

Waking is slow then very fast. There are reeds and a cool morning sun. A duck is staring at them in confusion.

Charles, once again flopping onto his back on a riverbank, but this one familiar and safe, 'by the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ what the _fuck_ was all of that?'

 

 

Dried off and finally warm Arthur goes in search of the emperor and finds him in his library with a blanket over his shoulders and feet precariously close to the fire. In his hands is the dagger.

Arthur joins him on the floor. The blanket is offered and he accepts so they are sharing and sitting shoulder to shoulder.

'How is everyone?' Napoleon asks.

'Fine. As well as can be expected after such an ordeal. All mirrors have been covered and locked in the lumber room.'

' _Good_.'

'Charles and Harriet are staying for the evening, if that is all right.'

A nod.

'You never told me whose face you see in the entrails in your dreams.'

The dagger is put back upon the table beside the settee they are resting against.

'What a thing to bring up.'

'Only we saw one back _there_.'

Napoleon considers this as he watches the flames. Truthfully, he is thinking of how pleasantly warm he is and how clean he feels which is a small mercy for the fairy river's mud had smelled of something he cannot place but it had not been _nice._ Flint, who apparently had been to the colonies, had said it reminded him of a river he had been on in a watery jungle swamp in America. Only, it sounds like there are fewer things in the water in fairy trying to eat you than in America.

Is fairy land in the colonies? Napoleon wonders. Or is it somewhere else entirely?

Arthur's hand slips into his. This old game. He closes the mental box on Fairy, the first time in days, and rubs circles with his thumb into Arthur's palm.

'There's no mirror in here?' Arthur asks.

'No.'

'Do you think someone could magic-scry into the room?'

'No,' a wry smile.

'Are you sure?'

'Absolutely.'

'Some Corsican devilry, no doubt.'

'No doubt.'

The duke takes the emperor's hand which is normally soft but now sporting a few burns from magic tricks gone awry, turns it so palm is facing up and kisses the inside of the wrist. He slides the sleeve up a fraction and places another kiss.

'Wellesley-'

'What I said last week - Lord, was it last week already?'

'Week and a half.'

In English, 'By Jove. Sod it.'

'Sorry?'

'Sod what I said.'

Napoleon blinks. Owlishly. Then smirks. Says, 'well sodding maybe-non-might!...to be involved'. Arthur sighs and returns to French, _Of course_ you will make a joke of it. Napoleon points out that it is Arthur's fault entirely for the choice of language he used. It isn't my fault the only English I know are sailor's phrases.

'Whose fault is it then, I wonder.'

'Layton's.'

Arthur wants to make a retort but decides against it and kisses the emperor instead. He can feel fingers cupping his face, thumbs brushing against cheek bones, then one hand pushes to the back of his head, gripping hair. With a moan he pushes them forward so Napoleon is on his back and Arthur straddling hips. Rubbing down he tugs shift out of breeches and half pushes it up before fiddling with waistcoat buttons. An awkward moment ensues as they both give in and separate to divest themselves of their own clothes. The neglected garments end up in a pile under the settee.

Leaning in for another kiss Arthur finds that he is not sure where it is he wishes to go from this point. He had a plan, sort of, when he asked about the dreams and entrails for he believes he knows whose face it is and only wanted to assure his...could he call him friend? Friend, that his son is probably safe and healthy and he is young and from all he has heard a sturdy and good lad.

That plan had crumbled immediately.

Trust the sometime-emperor of France to undo all his careful intentions.

He kisses the dratted man again.

'There is,' Napoleon murmurs once they part. 'An easier way to do this, an easier place.'

'We've never been the ones for the easy way.'

'No. But shift please.'

Arthur obliges and the sudden extreme nudity of the situation hits him. He is not a shy man but this is different from anything they had done before and naturally different from anything Arthur had pursued in previous liaisons. Being eyed by a man flat on his back underneath him is not the same as being looked at by a woman in a similar predicament. That this is the scourge of Europe, the Tyrant of France, the Ogre of Whatever Else It Is He Conquered makes things perhaps a tinge more complicated. His mind leaps back to the term he had used.

Is this a liaison? Perhaps? Perhaps not and he should come up with a different term. He chases the questions away by yanking the blanket over his shoulders and lowering himself back down. He nuzzles against the side of Napoleon's neck where hair is beginning to curl from the heat and the clear fact that the emperor needs a trim.

Arthur feels his body tense up because _fuck_ he wants something and so he runs his hands down from shoulders down between them. They are both half hard and it takes some coaxing before they thicken and Arthur's nuzzles turn into kisses then nips back up jaw and again their mouths are pressed together. One of Napoleon's hands drifts from hip to arse fondling, squeezing and Arthur feels that oh-so familiar tug and it is expanding through his chest. He finds himself mumblings things, mostly insensible, as fingers press against his entrance. A gasp, his cock twitches, there is the knowing heavy feeling in his limbs before he can squeeze them tighter Napoleon pushes him back up.

'I have to get something.'

Napoleon looks at him for a steady moment until he snaps that he isn't getting any younger and the floor isn't very comfortable so if he wouldn't mind hurrying up. Napoleon laughs. Kisses him. Arthur rolls his eyes and feels oddly pleased with himself.

There is only a quick half-a-minute passing before the emperor scoots back and yanks Arthur and the blanket back on top of him muttering something about it being cold. Half sitting up he snakes a hand back around and the duke makes a noise in the back of his throat, eyes which are blue-blue at the moment, a little wide. With lips half-parted Arthur buries his face back against Napoleon's neck as he rocks, slowly, back onto a finger. It is wet. He thinks, Oh that was what he went for - then thoughts scatter as he feels it fucking deeper into him. Regaining himself he shifts a fraction and dips his hand back between them and strokes. A second finger presses in. Napoleon is kissing the skin below his ear. Then down. Then their mouths are together. The blanket is where? Arthur can't give a toss.

'Should we?' He asks. 'In all honestly my knees are going to give me havoc -'

He receives a nod and Napoleon shifts back onto his elbows as Arthur maneuvers himself forward until he can feel the other man's prick against his backside. Another moment then he lowers himself down onto it. His eyes are closed, he assumes he is making a noise of some sort, but quiet enough for he is not told to shush.

Attempting to mimic what women have done when astride him he begins a pace and finds hands on his hips pushing him down, hard, and _Lord_ does he like it. _Lord_ does he want to do more than burry his moans into Napoleon's neck. The incomprehensible murmurs begin again. Gasps and hitches of the breath, a quick kiss here and there, he can hear a language being spoken and thinks it something he knows then realizes it is Corsicani and he does not understand but figures he comprehends the basic idea. It probably is not far from his own mutterings in English. That is a lot of curses, and _oh there_ and _yes_ and _God yes_. _Lord yes._

Reaching down again he begins to stroke himself, keeping his hand tight and it is so warm and feeling of being utterly fucked is nice and it is a little while but then he feels himself unraveling. He shudders, pushes his hips down hard and deep into Napoleon's lap, his own hand now wet and his arse clenching in a manner he had never really noticed before. The body underneath him is warm and still moving then it too stills and they are untangling and unsticking themselves. The blanket is recovered from its precarious situation near the fire.

'Well, I say.' Arthur says.

Napoleon gives him a sardonic look. Eyes reflecting the fire. Arthur notes that he no longer really notices the ink-magic stained one. Instead, he traces the beginning of a scar on the forehead that clearly goes further beyond the hairline, one across the chest, the evident bayonet wound on the leg. His hands are caught and brought up and kissed.

'I should go,' Arthur says as Napoleon pushes him down and proceeds to attempt to use his chest as a pillow.

'Should you?'

'Ought to go.'

'Perhaps.'

'You haven't moved.'

'No.'

The duke sighs and gropes for a pillow on the settee. Finding one he shoves it beneath his head. Beds, he says, beds are far more comfortable. Napoleon nods but does not move. If I am not to retreat-

'You! Retreat?'

' _If_ I am not to retreat-'

'The Arbuthnots' are in the one guest quarter we have.'

'Can we just go find a bed.'

A laugh, he is kissed and Napoleon is pulling him up to his feet. He says, If you complain about your knees, Arthur Wellesley, I'm making you sleep in the stable.

Arthur makes a face, You wouldn't, monsieur!

No, it is owned, perhaps not.

They dress and slip quietly into the emperor's room. As they settle into bed Arthur says, You never answered my question.

'About the dreams?'

A nod.

'I hesitate to say.'

'Why?'

'Because I believe that when a _mazzeru_ tells who they have seen they condemn them to death. So long as the name is not said, the dream is not spoken of in full, it might not come to pass.'

Arthur mulls this over and thinks that perhaps there are some faults to the logic but when he goes to speak of them he finds a sleeping Napoleon and, with all that has occurred that day, it does not take long for Arthur to join him.

The night passes in relative peace.


	14. Chapter 14

It is half-way through breakfast, albeit on French time so around what everyone assumes to be half-ten or eleven, when Hudson Lowe storms into _le petit Versailles_. He is stalled in the hall for a while then diverted into the study.

With whom does he wish to speak?

The one and only Napoleon Bonaparte if the blasted man will _deign_ to see him.

The emperor is busy.

Busy! He's in exile! What is he doing?

Eating breakfast.

Lowe fumes. Stalks about the room. Mutters about the French and their late eating hours. Then sighs - fine, I visited Woodford Hall, I know the entire Arbuthnot party is here. I'll see one of them. With some shuffling and scooting about of responsibility it is with a great heaved sigh that Charles volunteers to see the little lordling.

'Until you are ready, of course,' he says to Napoleon. The emperor waves him off, I plan to be indisposed until two. Maybe three. How long is he going to be here until? I'm indisposed until then. Fairy river water disagrees with me. Violently ill. He doesn't want the details. With a laugh Charles throws down his napkin and exits the room.

Lowe snaps to a rigid stand when Charles enters the room. He inquires after everyone's health. The entire village knows of the incident. That the Duke of Wellington was taken by the fairies and all his friends and the emperor and all of _his_ friends. Then the miraculous return. Washing up on river land like newborn children baptized in the blessed water. Batley made a sermon of it. Layton ran a book on the likelihood of their survival and took home most of the winnings. The story of the women, as always, remained quiet.

'Everyone is well, thank you. Nothing more than a few bumps and bruises and damp clothes.'

Lowe is positively trembling as the two men take a seat.

'Fire,' the little man snarls. 'We're going to set fire to the entire damned forest. I care not a wit about protocol. Who do I have to run that by? Wellesley is here. He's authority enough.'

'Peace man! What has happened now?'

'Apart from your own wretched experiences! Last night two more children were whisked away right under our noses. The parents found silver bells in their beds. _Bells._ Also, sergeant major Griffen went missing as well. You didn't happen to see him when you were ah, with the fairies, did you?'

'No, sir.'

Lowe's anger gives away and he sits back with a sigh. It is one of pure exhaustion. How can you run a military operation when the men have no confidence in you? How can you control a situation when reigns have been ripped from fingers by an inhuman force. Bonaparte remains forever popular. More so, now! Lowe's name is spoken like a dirty word. He complains of this into his hands as he buries his face against them. Feeling some pity for the man, Charles makes him a drink.

'Perhaps a little early but we'll call it medicinal. I've received a letter from Liverpool this morning. He writes to say he will be up by Saturday.'

Lowe groans.

'I do not think you need to worry. This is no reflection on you. In fact it was upon Harriet's advice that we wrote him. We, that is my wife, his grace, and myself, believe it is time for the government to be made fully aware of the situation.'

The lord spreads his hands then clasps them together. The measures instilled have done little to improve the situation. Charles considers the tumbler before him and pours himself a finger of Scotch to match Lowe's. They clink glasses.

'When I was a boy in Ireland I found a snake in our garden which was a bit odd since we don't really have snakes. Saint Patrick and all of that. So goes the legend at least. I'm hardly one to discount legends now, though. Mostly, however, we are not the climate for them.

'Still, here was this snake. I remember its snout and dry skin and how it was coiled upon itself. Who knows how it got there, perhaps a sailor lost it, but I, in my youthful stupidity, decided to attempt to pick it up.'

'What happened?'

'It bit me,' Charles scoots his morning coat and shirtsleeve up a few inches and there in the pale flesh of his forearm are little scars in pink tissue signifying the physical reality of the story. 'I very quickly deduced that the best way to grasp a snake was directly behind the head so it cannot lash out and bite you. Hold it fast and firm. Do not flinch. They are cunning devils. But the key is to not be angry at them for they are not human and cannot therefore be held accountable to our moral code.'

'Are you saying these creatures should not be held accountable?'

'Are they human?'

'Hardly.'

Charles shrugs, There you go. However, he finishes his drink, I do think it high time we did something about them. You ought not to blame a rabid dog for biting someone, but the damn thing still needs to be shot.

 

What of Mary Phillips has been told? Trace the circle of time back to the evening before. Men enter dripping river water into the hall with muddy clothes - all soaking, stained, ruined. Some, even, torn in places. Montholon had cut his arm and could not remember how.

The emperor, 'try and save it.' He means his clothes. But he is bearing the appearance of the semi-delusional and so is ignored by the staff.

 

Harriet tells Charles everything she can remember as he bathes. He said he could not speak yet and must order his thoughts. She has no such problems and tells her story freely, clearly. He nods, blinks through it, seems uncomfortable. He takes her hand and kisses the still-dusty, dirty, bruised knuckles. The small glass cuts sting. Her skin tastes of ash.

'I've been in water all evening,' he explains.

They retire to guest bedroom and hold each other underneath a pile of every blanket they could find in the room. Harriet thinks that had it been any other night, had it been anything else, they'd be undressing each other in relief. Reminding each other of their bodies and each wrinkle, freckle, crevice of flesh. They'd be fucking and making love at the same time. But at the moment it seems almost crass. Instead, they kiss each other and touch faces. Trace jaws and bury themselves in each other's arms.

'Should Arthur be told?' Harriet asks through a yawn. Charles kisses her, murmurs that it can wait until the morning. They remain like lovers of Pompeii, buried, living, clinging to each other.

 

Fanny explains the pile in the fire grate to Henri whilst he is still dripping water. He picks it up, without a word, and goes downstairs. He hands it to Flint, Deal with this. It's our former mirror. The gardener takes it, also wordlessly, and adds it to the fire of brick-a-brack he has burning.

Returning Henri discovers a lost looking Wellesley in the hall.

'Guest room is taken,' the duke says. 'I'm looking for a place to kip. A cot or couch will do.'

'Try the library.'

'Cheers.'

Once Henri is finally dried off and returned to a semblance of respectability he tasks Fanny with telling him all. She does. He heaves a sigh and looks at her earnestly. She can see the concern in his face and does not know what to say to him to make it better. So she kisses him, his cheeks, his jaw, ignores the tumult that such actions raise in her. That his hands have seen the blood of the dead is one thing, that hers now have is something she cannot put words to yet. Gathering her up, Henri smooths her hair, hums an old tune from his childhood. They know how to brace each other against the inevitable reality of war and empire. They know how to clean each other up after starts and stops and falls and returns. Their life has been a swing - up, up, up then down, down, down. But this. This is different.

  
The Montholons, as with most things, do not speak of it and sleep with fingers inches away from each other. However, in the morning, Albine says, 'it is good to see you, Triston.' And Triston replies, 'I have missed you Albine.'

Together, they dress for breakfast.

 

All of this to say that Mary Philips is much on the minds of the people at breakfast. She is finally mentioned a few moments after Charles leaves to see to Lowe.

Should she be seen? Should she be called upon? A murderess! no less.

Harriet remembers Georgiana's claims about Mary. 'She killed my child and you _dare_ call me a _person._ You dare to insinuate that I am a witch.' Georgiana had been so haunted by Mary. Had even been driven to madness by the accursed woman.

It is this woman upon whom they must now rely. Harriet, despite her usual reservations on such matters, finds herself more than willing to believe Georgiana's claims.

After breakfast and before Lowe emerges from his conference with Charles it is decided that Harriet, his grace, and the emperor (former, Arthur mutters), should ride to Dr. Philips as discreetly as they could manage.

'Sire!' Layton hails them as they reach the green. A glance to the duke and the boy manages to appear at least a little shame faced. 'Lord Lowe has been looking for you,' Layton says as he comes to pat Vizir. An apple core is produced to the horse's great pleasure.

'Is he?' Napoleon appears astounded. 'I had no idea.'

'Indeed! He went looking for you not an hour ago. I am surprised you did not see him.'

'Well, a shame. Give him my warm regards. How is your lady friend?'

'Oh!' An embarrassed smile of pleasure. 'She is very well, sire. General. Monsieur.'

'I'm pleased to hear it. Remind me why you haven't married yet.'

'When I'm promoted!'

'Don't wait too long. Maybe Wellesley can put in a good word for you. Wellesley, you like Layton, right? He is what you English say - a "good chap".'

'That isn't how—'

'Good. Well, we best be off. My love to your lady and your mother and your aunt.'

'Thank you, monsieur!'

They ride on.

Arthur makes a pointed comment that he will _not_ be promoting whoever Napoleon takes into his head as deserving of it. There are _always_ men deserving promotion, that being the way of the army. Napoleon waves him off. Nonsense, Layton is a good soldier, a sound soldier, therefore is deserving of promotion.

'Promotion for the sake of friendship isn't how things are done in England.'

The sometime-emperor of France laughs. Sharp. He slaps the duke's back. 'Do you hear yourself? Never mind. He _is_ a good soldier. But I won't push the subject.'

Arthur to Harriet, 'you see how I am treated?'

'Harshly,' she laughs. 'I see you suffer overmuch, Arthur.'

The remainder of the short ride is spent in such a manner until they arrive at the Philips'. The usual cool, calm atmosphere is present. Quietly they dismount and lead their horses up the lane ducking branches overgrown and brushing through expanded hedgerows and thistledown.  


Napoleon can feel the magic—the static heaviness in the air. His palms begin to itch. That fire-branding heat returns and he only then notes that it had been gone for the past day. Years ago he had read a monograph from the Parisian Royal Society about a man who suffered from the consumption of strawberries. His face and neck would turn red and his tongue swelled up something terrible. Prior to this he would feel fire in his chest that rose upward. A blush cursed with pain. That, he now thinks, is an accurate description.

A beneficial point to note, it is not as bad as it was when the magic first made itself known. Slowly, slowly it seems to be lessening. Not the ability of the magic but, rather, the noticeability of the bearer of the magic to feel the burning sensation attributed with it. He thinks he should ask the duke and Fanny if they have noticed a similar effect.

Slightly ahead of him is Arthur who is rubbing tips of fingers on the inside of his palms. He stamps as he leads his horse. Vizir snorts, shakes his head. Napoleon pets the horse's nose. Yes, he thinks. I agree with your assessment.

'Your grace, monsieur, Lady Arbuthnot.' The greeting floats down to them from a garden path. The leaves rustle and there is Mary with a wan smile. 'You may leave your horses tied to the fence. I expect you would like some tea. Or perhaps not. Your grace, do not look so horrified. Coffee and chocolate can also be arranged. I am a little short staffed today, however, so you will have to mind the wait.'

The garden's density increases as they walk towards the usual table and chairs. Nose accumulates around them. It is what? The sound of bells (very feint indeed), a sort of buzzing. As if they were surrounded by bees.

Arriving at a clearing they find a small portable brazier with a fire and are invited to move their chairs towards it.

'I must apologize again, Lady Arbuthnot, for last night. I had not meant to disturb you or your friends.'

Harriet smiles, sort of shrugs, wants to respond but cannot think of anything to say.

'As I said, an unfortunate side effect of magic. Not unlike his grace's tendency to cause things to fly hither and thither when magic is attempted.'

Harriet, 'were you successful? In your experiment?'

'Oh yes. Immensely. I will be taking matters in hand shortly. Today, even. At least, I will attempt to take matters into hand regarding the cause of our recent disturbances.'

'And what is the cause?'

Mary frowns, considers the pattern of the wooden table. Looks up and smiles at Arthur. 'When Pendragon took the sword from the stone he unleashed a form of magic. A door opened, some might say. At least that is legend. Regardless, the description fits. A door has partially opened, a crack in the firmament, and now these things wish to open it all the way. And these things do seem to take legends very seriously.'

 

 

What are they to do? The villagers are in the green - laborers, craftsmen, farmers, minor landowners and tennents. They are there with their distaffs, hoes, knives, sycthes. It is not difficult to find a weapon on a farm and this is a community of farmers and miners. There are angry dirt-faced boys with sharpened pennies in their fists. There are mothers with broken fishing rods that are now more spear than rod. These are people spoiling for a fight that should have begun a week ago. They are soldiers who cannot march but by the word they can fight.

Hudson Lowe and his men begin to arrive as well. At first it looks to be a clash for what do these laborers represent but the uprisings in the north, the machine breakers and unionists. But then it all becomes clear.

Napoleon, Arthur and Harriet pass through at noon. The sun is low. The forest exhales. It feels darker.

'Wait for orders,' Arthur informs Lowe. 'Arbuthnot and I will give them presently.' He thinks that presently should have been three hours ago but it is evidently no time for such concerns.

 

 

One o'clock. Or thereabouts.

'Mrs Philips says she is going to the forest to try and solve the problem,' Arthur says. He, Charles, the Frenchmen, Dr. Philips and Harriet are in the yard _le petit versailles._ Napoleon is snapping at the servants. The children are, once again, sequestered in the billiards room. The bees are hovering and anxious.

'My wife!' Dr. Philips turns to leave. 'She will do no such thing!' He stomps off.

'That's not going to work on her,' Napoleon mutters to Arthur when he joins the group.

 

Harriet and Fanny gather the mirrors of the house, still well wrapped, and place them outside. Flint begins to build a fire. Henri insists that it will be _him_ who lights the match.

Fanny to Harriet, He still talks about them in his sleep. I suppose it is a blessing that he cannot remember during the day.

 

 

Half-One.

Charles tells Lowe what Harriet told him about the creatures.

'Good lord, man! There's no way to do that in a battle!'

'Well...can we give it a good English try?'

'I'll say we better.' Lowe snarls at his men - Line! I said to form line! Idiots. They're all idiots.

 

Layton kisses his girl and tells her she best hide. Susie is gripping a shovel. Give me a gun, she says. I can hit a rabbit at fifty paces.

Overhearing this Lowe shouts, 'Get this girl a musket!'

 

Charles hugs Harriet. What was that for? Oh no reason. Just thought I ought to. Arthur interupts them, hands a letter to Charles. 'If we don't return, can you post this to Kitty?' Charles shakes his head. What are you speaking of? Of course you'll return. Also - what do you _mean_ return?

 

The forest exhales. The wind is ice. It freezes. People are motionless for a moment.

 

 

Two o'clock. Or thereabouts.

Fire! Napoleon tells Layton, pulling the boy into a rough hug. All else fails, use fire. How are you with a gun? I remember, you're a master. Are there canons? Yes? How many? What weights? All right, give me a map, I'll show you were to put them.

Layton notices the emperor playing with an iron dagger. Old. The man flicks a flake of rust off of it. Red, dark, like dried wine or blood. He doesn't want the emperor to go wherever it is the man is going for he knows he is _going_. He wonders if the soldiers on Elba had known. Napoleon's expression is distant yet present. He is martialling the staff, snapping at British soldiers in French and Layton is busy with translations and clarifications.

'Should the civilians be involved?' He asks, dubious. Napoleon laughs.

'Never underestimate civilians. I saw a man's head removed with a penknife during the revolution.' He wags a finger under Layton's nose. 'That is a reminder to you and your government. Never underestimate the masses! Now, what is your back-up plan for when all of this fails?'

'Fire, sire.'

'Right. Burn it to the ground.'

'Like Moscow, sire?'

'Like Moscow.'

 

 

At half-two the bees swarm. Their hives are empty. Flint declares these dark times indeed when the bees are not having any of it.

Charles commandeers Napoleon and Arthur for five seconds of conversation as bonfires are being prepared. He closes his eyes, 'God give me strength.' He opens them. 'We are ready for war. Since it seems that war is coming to us. So, please, enlighten me as to _why_ we are losing our two best military men?'

'You'll have Bertrand!' Napoleon chimes brightly. 'He is uninspired at the best of times, I'll admit. No Soult, that is certain. But he is very steady. Never flinches. I left him instructions. As for Montholon, give him a musket and point him in the general direction of the enemy. Layton as well. Although he is a crack shot—'

'Layton isn't one of your men!' Snaps Arthur.

'Isn't he?'

'You cannot just commandeer soldiers from the British army for your own purposes! (even if that purpose is the defense of Woodford).'

'Can't I? Worked for me on Elba. Don't make that face, Wellesley, it is unattractive.'

 

Arthur to Harriet, a moment of quiet, If the emperor spoke English with any command we would be in trouble. I haven't seen him this alive—well, ever.

He doesn't need to, Harriet chides. He won that courtroom with French alone.

 

The forest inhales. Ears pop. Gasps as lungs are suddenly emptied. It is dark. There are clouds and no sun.

 

Mary Philips arrives from the shadows, or perhaps she had been there all along watching the frantic preparations of the town. Her husband? She shakes her head, she has not seen him all day.

'We will need a doctor before this is out,' Harriet states.

Mary nods, Oh yes, you will. You have Fanny.

Fanny, 'I am _not_ -'

But she has no time to finish. There is a scream from the green.

 

 

Three o'clock.

Inverse of the witching hour.

Mary says, It is time, gentlemen.

They take up pistols, adjust swords and follow her through the gate with its granite and its lavender and its salt and bottle of dirt and Arthur thinks, is that hair in the bottle?

_Corsican devilry, no doubt._

_No doubt._

The forest is around them before they can register leaving the village of Woodford


	15. Chapter 15

No longer is there a path in the woods - only brambles, leaves, debris underfoot. Around them a low mist clings to the ground, to their clothes, to the trees. That they are being watched is not doubted. That they are being followed is not questioned. That there are eyes peering out at them from shadows is not debated. Mary, who is ahead with a torch, stops and holds a hand up, both men halt behind her.

'All iron off.'

'Pardon?'

'Gentlemen, we cannot go further if you are wearing or bearing anything with iron. Hobnails?'

Arthur looks gingerly towards the ground, 'is there not poison oak hereabouts?' When he receives no answer he, with great reluctance, removes his boots and stockings. Napoleon follows suit. They tuck them carefully next to a rock and stack a few stones on top so to better notice it upon their return.

'This forest owes me half a wardrobe,' Napoleon mutters as they trudge forward.

As they move deeper the trees grow older, more gnarled, hunched, evil in their appearance. Napoleon wonders if they took a hatchet to one, severed its living flesh what would they find within? Bones of the missing soldiers? Milk teeth of the missing children? The thought is buried.

Underfoot the brush becomes difficult to pass and Arthur is sure his feet are bleeding. Long ago they had stopped feeling. Or, to him, what feels like a time and a half ago. Ahead of him Napoleon's expression is one of distinct distaste. He stomps after Mary but the emperor's displeasure is palpable. Arthur would laugh in any other circumstance. As it stands, he feels it would be ungentlemanly and unkind.

Time, as has been the case for a fortnight, has ceased to have meaning. Have they been walking for an hour? Five hours? A mere fifteen minutes? How far are they from Woodford? A mile? Ten miles? Napoleon does not know, cannot fathom how he would even begin to go about determining such a thing for no natural light is escaping through the foliage. All they have is Mary's torch and an unearthly light that appears in the distance. A soft white glow that is not unlike the moon, except that it cannot be the moon.

The River Nene greets them. Mary stops by a large rock and sets the torch upon it.

'This is our ford, gentlemen. The world of fairy, as the best descriptor I can find for it, is one that is neither here nor there. It is neither awake nor dreaming. The actions that happen there are ones that happen here in our world and yet are not _of_ our world. If that makes sense.'

Arthur shakes his head. No, it certainly does not. But he is beyond caring about things making sense. The time for that is long past.

Napoleon nods his head. Oh yes, it is like the world of the dream hunters. He smiles. Arthur knows that smile, it is one that says 'I have a secret'.

Mary turns back to the river. She steps in and goes so the water is to her waist. She turns back to them, 'Close your eyes. Think of home.'

She leans back with arms out then goes under.

Arthur starts for she is utterly gone. No sign of being swept down stream, even then the current does not look that strong. Although he has heard of the Strid up north where the river, in its narrow parts, looks calm and pleasant but will suck a man under into secret caves. Let the earth grasp him into a watery grave, bones resting in the hollows of rocks and minerals.

'I hate rivers,' Arthur mutters as he follows Mary's lead. 'Are you coming?'

'What home am I supposed to think on? I have too many options.'

'Don't overthink it and get in. This one is at least cleaner than the last river we were in.'

Napoleon follows him in muttering about the cold water, cold weather, cold sun and why is everything in England cold? Who decided to settle upon this wretched isle?

They go in to their waists. Arthur swallows and closes his eyes. He feels Napoleon grab his arm. He thinks of London and Harriet and Charles and wisps of memories of Dublin then he is pulled under and they enter the land of fairy.

 

-

 

In Woodford it continues to be dark with only firelight to see by.

The village green is formed from a split in the High Street as two lanes lead toward the river. A third, aptly called The Green, cuts between the two making a triangle. East of them is the forest, that it had once been called the Shrubbery seems remarkable for now it stretches north and south, curving around the village. From rooftop, or in the case of Batley who is in St Mary's with most of the village children, bell tower, the full extent of the forest can be seen. It cuts sheer across the road to Kettering and almost reaches the road to Cranford. When did it grow to be so vast cannot be fathomed. That it _had_ been growing had been known but surely, it was not this large yesterday? Batley cannot remember. He goes back down to the children and a group of volunteers pledged to defending them in case of attack. He wonders if they should pray. Surely that is needed at the moment, prayer. That is what all his books would recommend.

Striding to the altar he kneels, says a prayer, the shortest most desperate prayer of his life. Stands, turns back to those within the church.

'I suppose we best take up weapons and have a plan in case of attack. Prayers need action as much as intent and will power to be brought to fruition. God will not do all the work for us.'

 

Priority for those on the green is keeping the fires burning and finding enough powder and shot to last the night. Lowe says he only has minimal supplies. Guarding Bonaparte was intended to be a relatively shot-free endeavour.

Layton, 'Perhaps we can use silverware, sir! Is that not what the navy does in such desperate situations.'

'I will not have us being reduced to _naval_ standards, lieutenant.'

'To be fair, sir, half of our men are armed with fire pokers.'

'Lieutenant! Do you not have somewhere to be?'

'Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!'

Layton scoots off to his position beside the Arbuthnots. Charles says that he is a cheeky bugger and it will get him in trouble one day.

'The emperor doesn't mind.'

'The emperor is your commander, my boy.'

Layton finds this dubious but does not press the point. To distract himself he loads his musket and trains it on the rooflines.

Softly, a light appears. At first eyes cannot register it. They work to discern the different shades of darkness around them then they can make it out. A dim glow from _elsewhere_ and oh - there is fog rolling in. Thick mist filling streets, hugging against walls within it shadows of creatures move. The green is soon surrounded.

It is silent but for the fires.

Glass breaks in the distance.

Layton's heart is pounding.

The sound of water rippling.

Movement to his right. He swings the gun over, it collides with something, a hiss and nails - nay claws - dig into his thigh. His feet are pulled out from under him and he is dragged forward.

Charles shouts, drops forward to catch Layton's hand. The young man is screaming.

'Hold on!' Charles orders.

Layton cannot. His hands are slippery and they escape from Charles' grasp.

He is gone. Only thing left is the feint outline of the musket and the smell of damp soil.

A rush of wind.

Foul forest breath.

Charles grabs his fallen pistol.

The fog advances.

 

-

 

What is the land of fairy but a place of contradictions and states of _between_ of shifts and constant movements yet without change. There are the bells, Arthur groans when he hears them. Not the damn bells! The tintinnabulations! The bells bells bells. Then, of course, the lights. The flickers between trees of colours fantastical. Colours of passion, mystery, comfort. They come close then move away. He wants to follow, he wants to remain still, he wants to pray. He cannot remember the last time he has wanted to take to bended knee and weep before God.

It is a cathedral of a forest. The lights are the shattered worlds of stained glass. The bells are the remaining hints of a chorus. Of chants. Of prayers. There is the smell of lavender and sandalwood and it is the incense of that ever so superstitious Catholic Mass.

To Napoleon it smells of the Feast of the Epiphany for is that not frankincense and myrrh? Here there are three - an emperor, a duke, and a witch. Then there were three wise men or kings - Balthasar, Caspar and Melchior. The parallel ends abruptly. What else is frankincense and myrrh used for? Perfume for the dead. As holy oil to anoint a king. None of this is relevant but the altar boy in him, the good Catholic son, is going through the steps and saying the catechism and remembering the rites.

Through the woods they move softly. Mary, as always, leading the way. Beside them a figure begins to emerge from the darkened fog. A mist taking shaping into a tall creature, perhaps a man, yet it is clear to both Napoleon and Arthur that there are no feet touching the ground. Instead, it floats and tracks their progress until, at last, it seems to move ahead of them and then it is in front of Mary.

The face is what Arthur notices first - and the eyes (of _course_ the eyes) which are twins of Napoleons with one storm-cloud grey and the other ink-black. The emperor makes a noise. The face itself is long, angular, all strips and lines of flesh and is it white or grey or feint, feint green? Difficult to say. Like the figure Napoleon had seen of the one wearing the soldier's skin, it is mostly limbs and there are nails that are long and sharp enough to make a man's skin crawl. When it smiles, oh those teeth.

It speaks, or seems to, for the words appear scored into their heads.

'Welcome.' It says, a mocking jolted, shambling bow to Mary. 'We have been expecting you for some time.

'We are here to see your mistress.'

The creature nods. Its movement disjointed, as if it were being manipulated outside of itself.

'We thank you for sending your friend to us last spring.'

Mary's expression is one of stone. Arthur and Napoleon exchange looks. Napoleon wonders how one conveys, 'shoot and run' with a facial expression. He wonders how his life has arrived to a point where that is something he needs to convey to the duke of Wellington. Evidently, he thinks, we need to come up with a set of code words for such situations.

'Take us to your mistress.'

'We wonder at your bringing these two.'

'Do not make me force you.'

The creature smiles. There is a sound of nails across chalk in their minds and Napoleon wants to scream. He finds himself holding his head and sinking to the ground as the noise grows louder. There is speaking within it - words to discern but he cannot make them out, cannot understand, cannot focus. Then it stops.

Someone had been screaming.

Oh, he is panting. It had been him and possibly Arthur. _Oh._

'We will take you, now.'

Getting to their feet they shakily follow after Mary.

 

-

First few creatures fall and there is a feeling of elation—they _can_ be mastered. Lowe gives the order for his men to advance five paces, load and fire.

The villagers are fighting in a more ad hoc fashion. They hack and chop and whack and beat and trip and strike. Their fury is tangible. In one corner, by the Addington-ward road, Mrs. Topsom is formidable. In hand is her husband's old sword from his own days in the army. She thinks that he would not mind so much it being used in such a battle. Even if he would have minded terribly that it was his wife doing the wielding.

With each hit she screams at the creatures _where is she? Where is my niece? Give me my niece back!_

They merely laugh at her.

 

To Bertrand it seems too easy. Too simple. He says to Montholon, 'I wonder what their trick is going to be.'

'You think they will have one?'

'I have no doubt.'

 

How to get the creatures, once struck down, to the fires is difficult until Harriet decides that an organized effort must be conducted. She gathers a group of the more lost looking people in whose hands weapons are evidently foreign objects. Three fires, three corners, three main sections, she explains. We split up as evenly as possible and drag the fallen creatures to the fires. Perhaps one or two sturdier people on, ah, beheading duty.

She leads one group to the northern corner, a young shearer goes to the south west and Albine takes the south east.

When the first body hits the flames the smoke is a thick black and the air smells of burning flesh and hair. If possible, it grows darker still.

 

Will there be another dawn? Will they see the sun again? Or will it be a dim, distant feint red orb as it had been for the past few days? A red dawn for a red day.

Billows of acrid smoke fills the green saturating skin and clothes. Before long most rip fabric in order to make masks to cover nose and mouths. Those wearing white find it turning grey. It is as if they are drowning in the magic, the smoke, the mist. It claws at their bodies, covers their clothes and so all they know is the darkness.

Within that darkness are bells.

 

-

 

The creature's mistress is Georgiana. Or, the thing wearing Georgiana's skin. Which is now old and cracking and turning yellow. It peels up at the edges, away from that greenish grey flesh beneath. This one's eyes are black so it appears to not have eyes at all and when it laughs it is like a small child.

They can change shape and form, Arthur recalls. Since one of these, to my eyes, had been a mere maid. And then he remembers when he had been with Richard that one night, drunk, looking for wine and a child he could not see had laughed and taken his hand and Richard had said _no eyes, it had no eyes._

'It is always a pleasure mistress witch,' Georgiana says to Mary. There is no mocking, stilted bow. 'You killed one of us.'

Mary spits, 'As you have been doing to us.'

'In the way that you do not blame a dog when it bites you, we cannot complain when you act within your animal nature.'

To Arthur this is too much, 'our animal nature! We are not the ones stealing children in the dead of night!'

'Oh,' Georgiana smiles. 'Is that a problem?'

' _Is that a problem?_ '

Mary holds a hand up and Arthur finds he cannot move his mouth. His thoughts are screaming. He believes that all can hear them.

'I want you to leave us,' Mary says. Around her the air shifts. Buzzes. Excites itself. 'You are not welcome in England, nor anywhere else in human land.'

'It is a little late for that, do you not think? Or, is it that you wish to be the only magic wielder here?' Its head tilts to the side. Black eyes glint for there is evidently light and life behind them. The teeth are nauseating. 'Do you fear us taking the place that you witches have carved out for yourselves? That secret place within society that has protected you for so long? That will not be the case, you may be rest assured.'

'I take no issue with any of that.'

'Good, for it is a little late. As your two gentlemen here have demonstrated. One,' attention moves from Mary to Napoleon. 'has been known before.'

Napoleon scowls, 'I had the pleasure of meeting you for a time.'

'Oh no. Before that. But perhaps it was not you, but someone very much like you. A mother? A sister? Difficult to place.' Back to Mary. 'We are not going to leave now that the door is open. And mark me child, we are just the beginning. You know this, once the door is open it is a matter of time before England is to be made great again.'

To Napoleon it seems that Mary pales. But the conversation shifts for Georgiana, apparently bored, transfers attention to Arthur. 'What have we here?' A sneer, 'the once and future king.'

Napoleon, 'Not exactly.'

Mary moves, sudden and sharp, in her hand is a knife. She raises it, snarls 'go back, foul beast'. Georgiana flies backwards, slamming into a tree. Another wave and there is fire. A ring of it around them. On the other side Napoleon can see the leering, angry faces of more of Georgiana's kin. And then, also, others - creatures he has never seen before, never imagined. Lurking deep in the shadows is some thing large, bigger than a house. He laughs. He cannot help it. It pours out of him.

Arthur grabs him, shakes him, 'what are you thinking, man?'

'A troll, there's a _fucking troll_ Arthur.'

The air is heavy. Both men are familiar with the feeling. They turn back to Mary as Georgiana stands snarling.

'You are siding with the very people you should hate. Witches and what are they?' A wave to Napoleon and Arthur. 'Wizards? Cunning folk? Kings and emperors and their ilk have never been friends to magic bearers. Witch-bane both! Side with us and-'

'Never,' Mary hisses. 'The world does not work the way you think it does. Not anymore. Have you not seen London? The world is changing.' Her hand pushes into the dirt. A rumble. Earthen fingers erupt from the ground but Georgiana is too fast. She darts forward, takes up Mary by her frock. Smiles with those teeth and the nails cut into her skin. Still, Mary spits, 'you will not have an easy time conquering us. Humans are resilient and the British are the most stubborn of a stubborn lot.'

'Good thing,' Georgiana laughs. 'I like a game.' She pulls Mary close with jaws wide, unhinged. Then she screams, drops Mary who falls like a rag doll. The creature's clothes are on fire and at one end of the rags of its dress is Arthur holding fast. Mary's knife flies through the air. Embeds itself in a tree.

'I didn't think that would work,' Arthur says.

Georgiana whips around, Napoleon yells, Arthur finds himself flat on his back then there is searing pain as he is pulled up by his hair. The smell of burnt flesh fills the circle. Mary's fire, surrounding them, begins to weaken as she remains unmoving, face pressed into dirt. The duke's eyes water and he wants to move, wants to speak but cannot. He can only hang from Georgiana's hand and watch as Napoleon stumbles back. The creatures outside of the ring of fire move close. The emperor thrusts his hand into the flames. They grow again - regaining strength and a sky blue colour in the base.

Georgiana smiles.

Dead dog of war smile.

Dead boys of war smile.

Dead horses of war smile.

Arthur had once mouthed into Napoleon's shoulder, They do not know what to do with us old war horses.

'Let me have your enemy. For he is that, is he not?'

'England was my enemy.'

'England. Which he represents does he not? Every time you see him do you not see that battle? The one I know you dream of sometimes. Do you not see Waterloo? Do you not think of everything you once had but will never again touch? Your family? Your friends? A pair of candlesticks and an ugly carpet?'

'Yes.' Napoleon breaths it out. His throat is dry, his hand is in pain. He wants to weep.

'Then why not give him me?'

Napoleon shakes his head. Everything is heavy. Cloying. He wonders if the dead have finally come for him for is that not what they do for those who have survived? How is it, they ask, that you deserve the sun upon your face, the breeze against your skin?

Barely any of Georgiana is left.

Skin, that is.

Clothes are charred, disintegrating remains.

'Make me a deal. Unlike my fellow Corsicans, I do not operate on vendetta.'

The creature looks down to Arthur who is staring somewhere between the ground and Napoleon. What he is thinking, Napoleon cannot fathom. Maybe he is thinking about Waterloo. That great and terrible thing existing between us as much as it exists around us in this land of Woodford that bears such likeness to the damn'd battlefield.

'First, I will grant you free passage from this place to your own. You will return unharmed. I will also ensure that your friends on the otherwise, currently dying, survive.'

'What else?'

'You miss your son, I believe?'

Napoleon nods.

He thinks of a boar with spilling coils of intestines. He feels tired.

'You would give anything to see him?'

Another nod.

'There are letters from him, did you know?' Georgiana nods. 'They will not let you read them. _He_ , ' a shake of the duke, 'will not let you read them. Of course, what can he know of the loss of a child? He whose sons are safe, here, in England. He who does not love his children the way you love yours. How is it that he deserves to see them and you are denied the same? Who is he to deny you your child the way he denies you movement and freedom?'

Arthur's eyes grow wide. He struggles but still cannot speak. Cannot shout no-no-no-well-maybe-a-bit-of-truth-but-not-entirely. Not all that.

'Give him us and you will be able to see your son.'

'Will I? Pray tell, how am I to believe you? How do I know you will keep your word?' He gasps, then, withdraws his hand from the fire. Refuses to look down at it. But there are tracks of water down his cheeks he knows. The fire, however, continues on as strong as it was before. With his good hand he fishes in his pocket for the iron blade. It is magnetic in feeling. Cool on his too-warm skin.

'You know this is how it must be. You saw his face in all those dead animals. Since the beginning you have known it.'

'That does not mean a wit to me.'

'It has been written in the stars. _Se e scritta in cielo_.'

'I'm beginning to take issue with the stars. Do not tempt me to attempt to thwart them entirely. I am known to be a difficult and contrary man.'

'Any son of Letizia's would be. Especially given her agreement —'

'Enough!' Inching his way forward Napoleon raises the blade. Georgiana's grip on Arthur tightens. The duke feels tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. 'You will not keep your word. Or, if you do, there will be a trick. There is always a trick. I have treated with enough tricksters to know well enough to leave alone.'

Georgiana steps back, eyes on the blade.

'How _did_ you bring that here?'

'Corsican devilry.' He continues to advance. 'If something can come through dreams to reality, if death in dreams become death in reality, why not in this world? It is not so very different. It is somewhat a dream land. Tell me one thing, though, what is it that you _want_?'

'Power. Freedom. Is it not the same as the things you want? We have been bound for too long, kept outside your realm of existence for too long. Now we are unbound and have a chance to be free. Surely that is a sentiment you understand with perfect clarity.'

'What does that have to do with Arthur - king of the Britons, not the duke.'

'He was the one who bound us. I had thought that perhaps he was reborn but I was wrong. However, I do need a new face do I not?'

Holding Arthur up with apparent ease, the man's toes were above the ground, Georgiana presses a hand against the duke's neck, so nails indent into his skin. Arthur wants to scream but cannot. The screeching is ripping through his mind. It feels as if a knife is slowly slipping under his skin, moving from below his ear down his neck towards his nape.

He can feel blood.

It is warm.

God he wants to vomit.

There are silken trails of it soaking into his clothes. He can no longer see Napoleon—only trees and they are no longer the trees they had been but different. Taller. Older. Bigger. In one is the twisted shape of a man, his face turned away but his arm, which is also a branch, is reaching forward. Beckoning. Arthur wants to go forward and take it. Wants to follow where it leads. There will be water, he knows. Maybe a boat. And granite.

Resting against the tree is a sword. Beside that, a half buried Roman eagle.

Someone says - Take it. Take the sword.

He starts, looks around, but he is alone.

 

-

 

Red on dirt. Except it is not red but for the reflection of the fire. The colour of blood on dirt is darker and the mere, paltry word _red_ does not do it justice.

That is what Fanny thinks.

_Red is a paltry word._

She is with Dr. Phillips and her hands are also red. Cherry red. She knows there is blood smeared on her face. Under her hands a woman is dying and attempting to hold in her stomach but coils, slippery and red and grey, escape her fading clutch. Her entrails are spilling onto the ground. Fanny stares. She can do nothing. No magic or good doctoring or modern science or ancient spells in all the world can save this woman.

The guts are warm and steaming in the cold air. Who knew that intestines were grey. Well, doctors and soldiers. But she hadn't known. Josephine, she thinks to her dead cousin, I so, so wish I could no longer think of battlefields and what our husbands have seen upon them. Josephine do you remember when Duroc died and all Napoleon said to you was _canon ball to the stomach_. Josephine do you think he saw what I am seeing? Josephine do you think Henri has seen what I am seeing? Do you think, when they close their eyes, this is the stuff of their dreams?

Abruptly, she stands. Wipes her hands on her dress. They are out of bandages and so are using dirty clothes and the bandages from the dead. She goes to the next person. A man with a missing eye, gouged out, claw marks down his face. She believes that she knows him but cannot make it out through the mess looking at her.

'Lie down.'

He does. She presses her palm to his cheek and imagines fire.

 

'Pull back,' Lowe shouts to his men. 'Pull back to the green!' The men ahead make to run but they are grabbed by unseen forces, dragged into the fog, consumed. Eventually the lane is silent. Lowe turns his horse, orders those remaining to return to the green. Regroup. Face these foes of the king's peace and fire on them. Let them know that soldiers of England are not be to trifled with.

The green is awash with fallen men, creatures, even a few animals. There is no order. Any attempt at discipline and strict battle protocol has been long abandoned. It is a brawl and Lowe knows, with a single look, that they will not last the night. The wounded lay where they fall for even the doctor and Madame Bertrand are fighting.

From the upper window of a house fronting the green a young woman is taking pot shots at the creatures. Lowe dimly recalls her. Layton's sweetheart. Speaking of the lieutenant he realises that he has not seen him in some hours. He wonders if his wife is safe back at Abelle Hall. He wonders if the children are safe. They have had no word from the south portion of the village.

He orders his men to rally. Where are the canons? What do we have as shot? Nothing? Well, try the silverware. Is that not what the navy does in such desperate situations?

 

Bertrand to Montholon, 'This is a desperate business.'

Montholon to Bertrand, 'as desperate as Waterloo?'

'Worse. I just saw to a soldier's leg. Who knew there'd be a day when I'd gladly save an Englishman.'

Montholon thinks on this as they duck below a cart to reload.

'You're soft, though.' He says as he darts up and takes a shot. 'You'd save a Russian if you felt bad enough.'

Bertrand roles his eyes. Sure, he says, but isn't that what makes us human?

 

-

 

Napoleon stops when he sees the blood. It is not enough to worry him immediately, but those smiling teeth give him pause. He thinks he has seen them devouring flesh before. Thinks he has seen them bathed in crimson.

Arthur is motionless. Limp. Eyes open but unseeing.

Napoleon casts about their circle, still aflame, as his step falters. Georgiana's smile deepens. The creature follows. Napoleon steps back. Georgiana prowls after and is then, suddenly, in front of him. Foul breath ghosts over his face and he can see a blue tinge to the duke's skin. Removing fingers from Arthur's neck the hand extends forward, touching Napoleon's face, a mirror to the gesture from his first visit to fairy. And oh - the ice and fire are blows to his stomach. Air rushes from his lungs. His mind screams - stab it! stab it! it is right there! But he cannot move.

A shout!

A very loud screamed curse, actually, and Georgiana flies sideways as Mary collides with the creature.

Napoleon is aware of several things: a searing pain across his face, blood following. Arthur landing, sprawled, face first in the grass. Mary shouting at him.

'No time! No time! Help me!'

He moves to her, he sees red, aware his face must be covered, he kneels by the struggling creature.

'Her chest! No the upper right - upper right!'

He follows the directions. A hiss. The trees rustle, there is the sound of water, the creatures outside of the fire move forward, back, uncertain. Arthur makes a noise.

The remaining skin of Georgiana falls away.

Taking the knife from him Mary works to sever the head. He is looking down at the pale flesh spotting with his own blood and then he sees what Mary has done. The blood of the creature everywhere. They are all a fine mess.

'They bleed red,' he says. His lips taste like iron.

'Yes.'

'Curious. I'd have thought it would be different, somehow.'

'How is your face?'

There is a wound running from left eye to mouth. Without a word he takes out a kerchief and presses it against his cheek. Mary nods, moves off the former-Georgiana to turn Arthur over who, to their relief, manages to sit up on his own. His expression is of severe confusion.

'Where's the man?' He asks as Mary repurposes his cravat for a bandage. The wound is luckily shallow enough.

'What man, your grace?'

'There was a man who was a tree. In a tree? I can't recall, but he would not look at me. He was holding a sword and I think he wanted me to take it. Or was he a woman? You know, I am no longer certain.'

'But he was a tree?'

Arthur shrugs. Mary regards him for a quiet moment before murmuring that it was probably just a swell. Now, we must make three separate fires and burn the body.

 

-

 

Batley stands in front of the door to St Mary's. Around him are creatures he has seen in nightmares only and perhaps some of the older manuscripts from university. The ones with hell decorating the margins. Demons, his mind begins to go through what he knows. Made of what? Augustine spoke of air. But they are evidently heavier than that. What substance gives them form? But then there has been talk that these are not demons but fairies.

He is holding a staff of wood. He is not a man for weapons. When they stalk forward he prays that his death will be quick.

A shout.

'Vicar move back! Against the door!'

He presses himself flush against the wood. The fairies look up to the voice and then there is a waterfall of boiling water dumped down from a window in the bell tower. The creatures scream, hiss, back away into the fog. Batley shouts up, 'do you have more?'

'We're working on it, vicar!'

The door opens and several villagers step out holding anything they could find that looked as if it could do damage.

'We must hold them off for as long as possible, vicar. Until another pot is boiled.'

'How long is that?'

The group shrugs. Say your prayers, one of the women suggests, They will be needed.

 

Layton wakes. He is on his back. He looks around him and can see little. Movement of things, perhaps people, running to and fro. Smoke is in the air, grapeshot, screams. Everything is chaos. He attempts to sit up, cannot. Lays upon the cold earth and looks up. There are buildings on either side of him, their dim form coming through the mist as his eyes adjust. Susie - he suddenly thinks - where is Susie? And Lord Arbuthnot? He remembers the man trying to hold his hand.

He attempts to sit up again and manages the small victory over bodily complain. Groping down he feels for the damaged leg. A tourniquet is around his thigh. Below the tourniquet is wet, soft, then the hard feeling of bone, the squish of rent and torn flesh. His hands are shaking. They are jerked back and he hugs himself. Begins to gasp. Wants to wrench but cannot.

'Who goes there?' A voice behind him.

'Layton!'

'Oh thank god, Charles said you were taken.'

A woman runs to his side, he recognizes her as Lady Arbuthnot.

'My lady! You must go somewhere safe!'

Her smile is grim, 'no time for that, sir. If I help you up can you at least hobble?'

'I believe so, my lady.'

He does not want to say that he is desperate for her to stay. That he does not want to be alone. He does not want to die alone. He wants his mother. He wants his brother. He wants Susie. He wants his childhood dog. He wants this woman whom he does not know to stay because at least then he will not be as scared as he was when he was alone.

'All right, on the count of three. One, two, and we're up. Good.' Harriet adjusts the man's arm around her shoulders, makes sure that her grip is firm. His bad leg drags on the ground. They make it to the green and she deposits Layton next to a fire.

'Here,' she presses a flask into his hand. 'Drink this. Try and stay alive. Take this.' A knife is pressed into his hand. 'Good luck, sir.'

 

-

 

The walk back to the river is solemn. The party has nothing to say to each other—or too much to say that words no longer suffice and so silence must do for the present. How is it to have seen too much, felt too much, done too much and so you are now empty of everything? As if you have been hollowed out, each breath in brings in new things to fill your lungs and your veins and your bones with for all the old has been pushed through and out and burnt.

The creatures that had watched them from the shadows of the trees have fled. Mary knows they will be back sooner, rather than later. She hurries her companions on.

Once across, or through, the river Mary motions them to wait. They do. She thinks that neither man is really seeing what is in front of them. That is fine. She begins to etch a pattern into the boulder that marks their crossing point.

'I know this has been an ordeal,' she says as she carves. A motion from Napoleon. He is suddenly watching her intently. Arthur leans against a tree. 'I do need to ask one more favour of you. There is a way to at prevent creatures entering - at least through here. But I need the two of you to help me.'

'Will it stop the magic?' Arthur asks. One hand is holding the side of his neck.

'No.' She smiles crookedly. 'I do not believe anyone can do that. But it will keep these creatures away for a time. From Woodford, to be precise. I need, however, blood. From all three of us. Do not worry,' she laughs at their shared expression. 'It is not very much. It must be from your left thumb. Thank you.' With the iron knife she cuts each thumb and holds each over the etched sigil. 'Now, take three steps away. Your grace to my right, the emperor to my left.'

'Former.'

'Not the time Wellesley.'

'Gentlemen, please. Now, I need you to dig a small hole. Find a pebble, touch it to the left thumb - yes exactly - and bury it.'

When they finish following her instructions they turn around to find her holding the knife above the rock as if making to stab it. The air gathers in, hems about the three. It feels as if a vacuum, such as in Boyle's experiments, had been created. It becomes difficult to breath then it becomes still. She lowers the knife until it begins to go into the stone.

A snap.

The air blasts out from Mary and knocks both duke and emperor over.

'Oh, my apologies. Perhaps ten paces in the future.'

Behind her is a moss covered granite rock with the knife's hilt jutting out. Raw. Uncanny. Bloodied.

 

-

 

Breath in, deep.

Exhale. Sharp. Sudden.

Open eyes for there is a blinding light, squint.

Sun.

Bertrand shields his eyes and watches in wonder as the clouds open up. The creatures fall back into the mist which hugs corners and overhangs and shaded areas. He, Montholon and a motley crew of soldiers and civilians had maneuvered north along the High Street in an attempt to push the creatures back. Their way had been slow and fraught. One man ended up with a wooden post through his middle. But now! Now there is sun and a clear way ahead.

Montholon shouts, runs and throws his arms around Bertrand, they both half spin.

'They are retreating!'

'Push on!' Bertrand orders with a laugh. 'We must push on. Also! Triston.'

'Yes?'

'You look like shit.'

'Same to you, Henri. Come!'

The group follows the two men along the road dispatching any creature not fast enough to escape. The feeling is one of giddiness, a mad happiness born of sheer relief. Oh thank my stars for the sun. Oh thank all that is holy for the blue sky. Anything but the dark. Anything but the mist. Anything but a steady onslaught of creatures without fear of death or physical harm.

As they near the road towards the mill, which also heads towards Cranford and the Arbuthnot estate, Bertrand and Montholon are able to see the horizon. The line of dreaded trees, the heavy mist above it and within it large creatures moving silently northward. The ground trembles.

'Are those-' Bertrand stops. Mouth ajar.

'Trolls?' Montholon whispers. 'Oh were that the emperor was here.'

Bertrand nods numbly.

The massive beasts pay Woodford no mind, intent on a silent mission of colder climes. Bertrand smiles then, with the sun on his face and he throws his arm around Montholon's shoulders.

'I think we are living in extraordinary times, my friend. Absolutely extraordinary.' 

 

-

 

Well, Mary sighs. Shall we go home?

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are winding down. Finally.

Arthur had once sat at a shattered desk on a battlefield and had wondered about memory. What it is, how it works, to what purpose can it be put. He had drawn no conclusions and had then written to Gordon's brother about Gordon's horse. His _horse._ Then he had fallen asleep on the floor of his tent to be found several hours later by his doctor.

Where is Gordon now? How is he remembered (beyond the inability to speak of his death the day it occurred)? How does one choose to remember _anything_? He had told Creevey: Even current, happening-just-a-moment-ago events become changed. Altered. They are a quick-sand of instances loosely stitched together into something resembling a cohesive narrative and, as any good politician and general knows, narratives can be changed.

Years later he repeated the sentiment to Bonaparte who had replied: Naturally, this leads to the question of truth in memory and _we_ are not here for truth.

Currently, Arthur sits in the middle of the green as Dr. Phillips bandages his neck after declaring it not too deep a wound to the great satisfaction of all involved. Currently, Arthur sits surrounded by the dead who are lain out in an orderly fashion. Families move through the field as shades through a graveyard. Behind Phillips is Bonaparte with dried blood on his face kneeling beside a soldier. Arthur cannot see who it is but he assumes it must be Layton for no one else would capture the former-emperor's time in such a fashion.

'You'll live, your grace.' Phillips says as he steps back from his handiwork.

'It is not in my diary to die today, doctor. So I'm glad you concur with my pre-arranged plans.'

'Glad to see you in top form after such events. And may I thank you again for saving my wife.'

Arthur wants to scream. Instead he inclines his head.

 

[Mary grabbing their hands suddenly, 'not a word to my husband. You are heroes already.'

'I do not like taking credit that is not mine,' Arthur replying as they try to not fall in the mess underfoot. The forest retreating leaves behind mud and broken branches, shattered rocks. Bones of a once thriving world.

'I know not what you are saying, your grace. I was possessed by one of those despicable creatures and you and the emperor - general - saved me and the village.'

Arthur looking imploringly to Napoleon who merely shrugs. He has no scruples in this matter and Arthur is not able to make him see reason.]

 

'It was an honour, doctor. And I was glad to be of service to England once again.'

Phillips moves off to another patient. Arthur leans back against the still-standing stone cross on the green. He closes his eyes. There is sun. It feels like a baptism.

 

 

The rest of the day is spent cleaning up the village. Moving the dead to places private where they could be mourned respectfully and properly. Ensuring the wounded had as much care as could be afforded them. The doctor from Cranford arrives to aid. He says that they had been taken unawares by strange villainous creatures but had not seen a skirmish in the way that Woodford evidently had. News from other villages? Counties? He shrugs, nothing that he has heard.

 

Arthur seeks out Bonaparte amongst the wounded soldiers but Layton says that he has gone away to the green.

'How is the leg?'

'I'm to lose it, your grace.' The young man puts on a brave face. 'But Susie said that it is no matter to her. But my career...'

Arthur has nothing to say to that and so takes his leave.

 

The thought of claiming the credit of Mary Phillips rankles and sits ill in his stomach. In the back of his throat. He rides through the village in the search of Harriet and Charles. They are still in the green overseeing the clearing away of the remains of the fires.

'Have you seen Bonaparte?' He looks about but cannot find the man.

'Check St. Mary's,' Charles says. 'He mentioned something about seeing to the damage there with the Bertrands.'

'Cheers.'

'Arthur— Thank you. Whatever you did, it worked.'

'I didn't do anything, Charles.'

His friend smiles, 'fine time for you to turn modest. Truly, Arthur, thank you.'

Arthur shakes his head, is inclined to protest, but thinks that this is not the time nor place for such a tale. We'll speak later, he promises them. Then you will know all.

 

St. Mary's reveals only the Bertrands and Batley. Bonaparte? Oh, the emperor has returned home. You've just missed him.

Arthur sighs, climbs back on his horse. His entire body is sore and he wants to take a bath and sleep for three days straight through. This is hardly the time to be given the run-around by the most damnable man in England.

'God bless you, your grace,' Batley exclaims before Arthur leaves. 'You are our savior.'

The duke grits his teeth but manages something akin to a smile.

 

'You are the most difficult man to find.' Arthur bangs into the library and eases himself into a chair. Napoleon is stretched out on the settee with eyes closed. There is a bandage across his face and he is half dressed.

'And you the most stubborn.'

'How are you feeling?'

'This really isn't the time, Wellesley.'

Arthur watches the prone figure for a moment before heaving himself to his feet. He finds two glasses and pours them both a large brandy. He deposits one on the table by the settee before sinking back into his usual chair. He drinks. Closes eyes. Exhales. His shoulders relax for the first time in days.

'Wellesley.'

'Hm?'

'My son. I do receive _all_ his letters do I not?'

Arthur opens his eyes and finds Napoleon sitting up and staring at him with an intensity he has never before felt.

'I do not handle that.'

The movement is quick and Napoleon is standing over him, he is shoved back into the chair, a firm fist gripping the fabric of his coat. His neck hurts from the sudden, jerking movement. A wince is barely concealed.

' _Tell me_.'

'Take your hands off me and behave like a gentleman and I will tell what I know. I need not put up with this.'

A flicker behind the eyes—which remain mismatched—and Arthur knows he miscalculated.

' _I_ behave like a gentleman! You who are not but a failed father and husband can know _nothing_ of this. _Nothing_ of the loadstone that my heart is when I think of my son. _You_ who are an ill-educated, purchased general of an ill-fated base island can _not_ pretend you are better than I. After your foul treatment of your wife and your sons I will not hear you preach about gentlemanly behaviour. You are _vile_.' His grip makes Arthur's shoulder feel raw. 'There are times when I think you are nothing better than a barely-qualified aristocratic shit in uniform.'

He shoves Arthur back into the chair. It is sudden, harsh, could have been a punch across the face for the way it stuns. The former-emperor is surprisingly strong and the connection between hand, shoulder and chair is the most tangible, real, _earthy_ thing Arthur has felt in days.

 

 

The fire crackles. Napoleon has removed himself to the window where he stands with hands behind his back.

'I should call you out for all of that,' Arthur says once he regains composure. He holds the brandy glass to his face. There is no reply. If he watches carefully he can see slight tremors in the shoulders. That he has not been manhandled out of the room is no small miracle. 'I have little to do with your mail and how it is handled. That is Lord Lowe's concern. What I do know is that most of the letters that are not addressed to _General_ Bonaparte, or some variation thereof, find difficulty getting through. Orders from on high. Lowe is simply doing his job and following orders as any good officer is expected to do.' Silence. Arthur feels desperate. He does not like that. He hates himself for it. How is it that such a man will make him feel such a way. It does not stand to reason.

'What happens to them?'

'The ones that are not forwarded to you? Read and burnt I shouldn't wonder.' He thinks: I can find out for you. When I am Master of the Ordnance I can change it. I can fix that. Out loud he says: I'm sorry.

The tightness of the shoulders, of the back of the man at the window relaxes. Tension rolls off, away, tumbles to the floor. A sigh. Napoleon turns so he is in profile and waves a hand. Arthur knows a dismissal when he sees one. Perhaps he ought not to leave but he cannot think of a reason to stay. Draining the brandy he bows. Closes the door as quietly as possible. Standing outside of it for a moment too long, although _he is not eaves dropping_ , there is the sound of a fist hitting a wall. He leaves before he can feel embarrassed.

 

 

 

Everything unwinds around midnight. He is lying on the floor of the music room with Harriet and Charles watching with some amusement.

'I always end up on floors in great contemplation and exhaustion after battles,' he had explained when they entered.

'You look terrible,' Charles says.

'My mood is a gift from a friend.'

'Bit rude of him, considering your status as wounded local hero.'

Arthur ruminates upon the crenellation. He taps his fingers against his stomach. At last he admits that perhaps it was somewhat understandable, not acceptable but understandable, given the stress of recent events. Really, he continues, I'm shocked we haven't come to more verbal blows before. We've had moments but none quite like this.

'You always said he wasn't much of a gentleman.'

'I might have taken it a bit far upon this occasion.' He props himself up on elbows and accepts the drink offered. 'We did nothing, you know. It was Mrs. Phillips who did it all.'

Harriet asks, 'Why do none of you say so publicly?'

'She made us promise to not breath a word about the truth. A promise I am currently breaking but I consider you both exceptions to the rule.' He reclines back to the floor and his study of the ceiling. 'We went in; she led. Along the way we met what I think is the leader of the creatures, assuming they only have one, who was wearing ah-well-who bore the appearance of Georgiana. There was a bit of conversation that I am uncertain about then a bit of a fight and at one point I found myself at the business of the creature's rather unfortunate talons. As you can see,' he motions to his neck. 'Then the next thing I am aware of is that the creature is dead.'

'That was the most edited account of a battle I have ever heard from you,' Harriet laughs.

'Waterloo takes you easily two hours,' Charles adds with a smile. 'And there's no exciting magic in that story.'

Arthur sighs, props himself back up and delivers a serious expression to them. This is no laughing matter, he insists. And the abridged version is because I haven't had time to work out anything else. I had thought to speak with Bonaparte about it but we had a disagreement.

Charles snorts. Harriet rolls her eyes. Arthur makes a face before declaring them absolutely ruthless friends. Where is their sympathy?

 

 

 

A list of the dead is drafted up and posted upon the church door. It is too long—thirty-two names too long not counting the disappeared. That will be another list.

Thirty-two names. Count each one. Each consonant and vowel. Pound the syllables out of loss. Rip their existence out from your known life. Think—I will visit my friend and know that they will not be there. I will walk through your now empty house and linger with the ghosts of your past happiness.

Thirty-two.

Count them.

Memorize their names and recall their faces and faults and blessings. Know they no longer breath the same air as you breath. Know they no longer feel the breeze and sun upon their skin. Know you will never hear their voice and see their visage and gradually, gradually it will all fade and so your memory becomes blurry and uncertain.

Bring us back up out of this.

Thirty-two.

Batley will allow the paper remain nailed to the church door long past funerals and burials. It is, to him, almost as firmly in place as the Ninety-Five Thesis must have been for Luther. The thought palls him. He knows that he will not be able to rip the wounds back open for taking the names down will mean that we are moving on and when the yawning raw ache of absence is still so tangible in the pit of your stomach how can you do that? Even think upon it?

 

 

 

The next morning is surreal. People move as if in a dream. Arthur receives a small box after breakfast. Hand delivered. He opens it in private and finds within a Sphinx beautifully carved in ivory and gold. He runs a finger over the back of it. The cool, smooth surface causes a spark underneath his finger quite unexpectedly. Snapping the box closed he tucks it away and puts on coat and hat.

'I'm going for a ride,' he tells Harriet when he manages to find her in Charles' study.

'In your state, Arthur? That hardly seems wise.'

'There is nothing for me but a brisk morning ride. I am hardly a cripple, my dear.'

She purses her lips. In hand is a letter and Arthur can see the seal and knows it to be from Liverpool. She taps the paper on the desk.

'He will be arriving tomorrow.' A sharp laugh. 'I haven't told the staff, yet. They're still in shock after yesterday. But I must, of course. We can hardly have him sleeping in a cold room on an unmade bed.'

He falters by the door, 'shall I remain with you?'

'Oh heavens no. Go on. Resolve your squabble.'

He ducks his head. She laughs.

Surreal, he thinks as he rides towards Woodford. This is all too strange for me.

 

 

'I am not susceptible to bribery.' He declares placing the box on Napoleon's desk. The former-emperor looks from it to the duke.

'It wasn't a bribe.'

'What would you classify it as, then?'

Napoleon pushes it towards Arthur. He leans back and there is an air of his being uncomfortable. He doesn't look at Arthur but instead back out the window.

'Well?' Arthur snaps.

'Do we really speak such different languages?' Napoleon snaps back. Whatever expression is upon Arthur's face makes the other man sigh. 'It's an apology.'

'I'd prefer a spoken one.' Arthur sits down. 'Go on, I'm waiting.'

Napoleon glares. 'I want the letters from my son.'

'You have to speak to Lowe about that.'

'He is hardly going to give them over.'

Arthur shrugs.

Napoleon continues to glare.

Montholon opens the door, sees the two men fuming, turns around and leaves.

As soon as the foul mood had descended it lifts. Napoleon smiles, his face turning from fearsome to handsome. It is as if a second sun has come out. It changes as he walks around the desk to one of deep concentration and determination. Kneeling beside Arthur's chair, he takes up his hand.

'I am very sorry for it all. I am beastly at the best of times and last night I was a veritable boar to you. It was unforgivable of me to have treated you thus. I should not have said everything that I said and the truths within it I should not have said in such a way. I was angry at the world, not you. You have my deepest apologies.' He looks up and the only description Arthur can come up with for the expression is one of pleading. He doesn't believe it for a moment.

'Very well, you are forgiven. I will put it down to the stress of the day.'

'We are friends again?'

'Since you seem to give me little option in the matter. I have never sought you out for such a thing.'

'But are we?'

'Yes, yes. You can stand again.'

Napoleon doesn't move. He's looking up at Arthur with eyes that, if the duke did not know any better, look to have tears in them. The duke adds, 'if it happens again I'm going to call you out and then there will be _no_ apology.'

A rapid few blinks. Arthur thinks, Do people truly not tell him _no_?

'Are we in agreement?'

Napoleon nods, 'perfectly.'

 

 

Removal of selves to the room with the billiards table. It is not a billiard room. It was never intended to house a billiards table. How the French actually got the table into the room is a source of contemplation. So Arthur and Napoleon scoot around each other, attempting to not put out eyes or aggravate wounds.

'What story shall we tell when asked about the recent events?'

In a corner of the room is a table with a precarious stack of old campaign maps covering it which had, only an hour prior, been scattered across the room. I had thought to work on my memoire more, Napoleon had explained. But then things began.

Arthur shrugs, 'I just cut details. Vague strokes of truth. And you're not going to hit anything at that angle.'

'The mantel is in the way.' Napoleon adjusts himself. It is little better. He shoots. The ball skims by its target, just brushing. 'And you're distracting me.'

Arthur laughs. It hurts due to the neck injury and general soreness but he finds that he does not mind.

 

 

'Do you ever miss your wife?' Napoleon asks. They have retired to the library with the stack of campaign papers and Arthur is looking them over in great curiosity. The former-emperor is reclining on commandeered pillows in front of the fireplace. Occasionally he nudges a log with the toe of his boot. Embers skitter out, hiss, go dark.

'Hardly. Seeing as she's only a day's ride away.'

'But you never see her.'

'I have no wish to.'

Napoleon considers the crenellations. Arthur looks up from the maps. He isn't sure which wife the man on the floor is remembering. Probably, the incomparable Josephine. Marie-Louise is generally thought of in a different manner. He is not so sad when he thinks of her, Arthur has noted. Merely bitter-sweet.

'You ought to cherish her while you have her. You wear the amulet she gave you.'

'Of course.'

'Does that not speak to some affection?'

'Why does my marriage concern you?'

'Well, one of us should be happy since it seems impossible for both of us to be happy at the same time. It is your turn, right now. Mine shall come again at some point I am sure.' Napoleon sits up on his elbows and frowns. 'I think I might take a nap. How is it that this day has passed thus?'

'Failed games of billiards takes up a lot of time.'

Napoleon laughs. Arthur relaxes and smiles down at the maps.

'Route of Capri,' he says with a wicked grin. 'You should leave it out for the next time Lord Lowe stops by to make sure you're not up to mischief.'

Another laugh. This is encouraging. The melancholic moods always disturb Arthur. They remind him of Castlereagh.

'I've already done that. I need to come up with a new method of unnerving him. Layton and I will scheme once he is well again.'

Arthur moves to join him on the floor, still holding the papers on Capri. He seats himself and lays them out on Napoleon's chest.

'Tell me, did he turn bright red?'

'White like a ghost. A very angry ghost.' Napoleon blows at the sheets. They ruffle themselves. Arthur traces the island. Wonders at Lowe fighting on against Lamarque and Murat when it was so clearly a loss.

'Almost exactly ten years ago,' Napoleon hums. 'October eighteenth. He's attempting to extract his revenge now, though.'

'Lowe?'

'Oh yes. Mostly through his sheer presence as my jailor.'

Arthur rolls his eyes. Napoleon smiles at him, sits up scattering the maps and takes Arthur's hands. He turns them over, traces the palms as is his usual wont, then pulls Arthur to him in a tight hug. When they part the former emperor does not look at him - rather to the fire and studiously gathers the maps back up.

'I'm going for a nap. Fighting fairies is exhausting.' He parts with a squeeze of Arthur's hand and a pat on his back. Within the pit of Arthur's stomach sits a loadstone. The name is unknown for the emotion it represents is unknown. Arthur ignores it. Presses it away and thinks that no one else has ever caused him such confusion.

 

 

Arthur is thus cast adrift for the afternoon. Montholon he finds in the music room attempting to record the recent events. Bertrand is upstairs ensconced with his family. Deciding to seek out Charles Arthur winds his way to Abelle Hall.

'You're here to see Layton, your grace?' One of the soldiers asks when the duke dismounts.

He is not but decides to say otherwise and is shown down a hall to the rooms that have been regulated as a temporary hospital.

Within are mostly soldiers with wounded civilians scattered amongst them. A few of Charles' tenants he recognizes along with faces from town — the blacksmith's son, John Dempsy the milliner, Mister Harold Teach local grocer, post-master, and works the pub when the pub owner is busy in the fields. Towards the back of the room is Layton propped up with pillows and folded uniforms looking a bit white about the edges.

'You're grace!' The young man struggles for a half-bow from his position and Arthur shoos him off the ill-fated attempt. No need for that, lieutenant. Layton settles. 'It is kind of you to see me.'

'Must see how our wounded heroes are faring.'

'It isn't anything we cannot handle, sir, nor anything we would not have done gladly.'

'How's the leg?' Layton frowns, fidgets with the sheets. There is sweat on his forehead. Arthur hurries on, 'there is no shame in it. Many good men have suffered similar injuries and have lived to have successful careers.'

'Dr. Phillips says it could have been worse. Whoever put a tourniquet on saved my life. I'd have lost more than the leg if they hadn't.'

'Can't have that. We need someone to keep an eye on the old terror.'

A grin, 'Too true, your grace. I'm not sure I'll be able to ride with him anymore. Although—' he stops. 'Never mind.'

'Go on.'

'I would not want to speak out of turn about a commanding officer, your grace. How is Bonaparte? I heard that you and he fought the foul leader of these foul beasts.'

'It was nothing so heroic as that. A group effort I assure you.'

'And Bonaparte is well?'

'Well as can be. Tired. Irascible. Still as eclectic as ever. Uglier than before. So, much as he usually is.'

'The others? Bertrand, the comte?'

'Oh, do not worry lieutenant. The French survived unscathed apart from the general's face. Montholon is scribbling away about the battle.'

Layton begins to truly flag at this point and the sweat is no longer a sheen but standing out. Arthur decides this is a moment to take his leave with promises that he will receive a visit from Bonaparte soon. The general had spoken of visiting. Br prepared for outlandish gifts. He appears to be in one of those moods.

 

It is bent over maps and tables of figures in the morning-room-cum-war-office that Arthur finds Charles and Lowe.

'Hallo, Arthur! I was wondering when you were going to make an appearance. No French twin with you?'

'He's asleep. Or was when I left. How is Harriet? She seemed a little overworked this morning.'

'Oh she's fine. Liverpool is arriving tomorrow.'

'I heard. We are to expect an exciting few days with him as guest I have no doubt.'

Lowe purses his lips. He adjusts the papers before him. He appears wound up. He had been explaining to Charles the importance of putting everything in order. Or presenting the situation as contained and in control.

'Bertrand saw trolls walking north,' Charles says.

'Good Lord! He said nothing of this to me.'

'Trolls,' Charles repeats. 'Real life trolls. To hunt one of those...'

'The trophy might dominate any room it is placed in. Over the hearth is right out.'

'I wonder how one goes about killing such a creature. Do you think it true that they can smell the blood of an Englishman?'

The laugh that comes from the duke is almost childish in its glee. He resigns himself, in that moment, to this being his new reality. Before this he had been fighting it. Not allowing it to be truly real. Or, when physical proof reigned, accepting it on account of assuming it to be temporary in nature. But no —there are trolls walking north, moving at night and through early morning mist, there were fairies wearing the skin of man, there is magic in his fingertips and the former-emperor of France (who has always refused to be anything but real, present, and a force of nature) has mismatched eyes, can see through glamour, and dreams of deaths to come.

‘I’m not sure what good that would serve them since we’re all Englishmen here.’

‘True. Although it would make the French damn good troll hunters if it proves true.’

Arthur snorts, ‘don’t encourage them. Have you heard the joke of Bonaparte becoming mayor of Woodford, yet?’

Lowe breaths in sharply. Arthur waves him off, Joke man. It was a joke. Well. I take it as one. Man can barely string five words together in English.

This does little to appease Lowe and Arthur is then reminded of a task. He smiles at Charles, ‘could you excuse the general and I for a minute. I need a word with him.’

Charles bows and withdraws. Hollering down the hall for Layton – Where are you, you damnable young fool? They hear his footsteps recede. Lowe tidies papers. He is a man who tidies things when nervous. It explains the state of cleanliness that Arthur finds the hall in at most times.

‘Bonaparte’s letters from his son,’ he begins. Whatever it is that Lowe had expected it was not this. He starts. Sets the papers he had in hand back down to the table. ‘Does he receive them all?’

Lowe nods, ‘I believe so. We read them, of course. I’m not a monster, you know. If it’s directed to his father and not ‘emperor’ I believe they are usually passed on. Now, letters from other members of the family…’

‘No, no. I was just curious about the son.’

‘May I ask why, your grace?’

Arthur shrugs, he says that he thought perhaps, due to the service rendered to England by her former-foe, there could be a small reward for the man. But! Alas, if he is receiving all the letters from his son then there is nothing new in that department.

Lowe repeats himself, ‘so long as they are directed to his father.’

‘Yes.’

He wants to press this point but knows he cannot. There is no reason to that he could explain to satisfaction both to Lowe as well as himself. He leaves it off for the day, ‘perhaps a redacted letter from another relative then? Just something to show our appreciated for his almost getting his face sliced in half.’

If a look could kill, Lowe’s would be committing a capital crime.

‘This is in direct contradiction to my orders!’

Arthur nods with great serenity, ‘yes. Who gave you those orders?’

‘The Master of the Ordnance!’

‘And who will be the Master of the Ordnance in a few weeks?’

Lowe glares. This is very unsound, your grace. Very suspect.

‘Keep him happy and he doesn’t cause trouble. And you get to pick the letter! Surely there’s one from a brother or sister that is all about the weather or some such nonsense. He has that daft one, Louis, pick a letter from him. He’ll just have five pages of Louis’ latest skin condition to read about.’

‘I have one from his mother lamenting the quality of roofing at her local parish church.’

‘Excellent.’

Lowe moves to a side board and rummages for a minute.

‘Oh, there’s one from his brother, the eldest one, about some ridiculous folktale in the Americas. Then he discusses his sheep.’

‘Sounds like just the thing.’

With great reluctance Lowe hands it over. In a flourish is _Cher l’empereur_. Arthur pockets it and bows. You’ve been a great help, it won’t be forgotten.

 

 

That evening Napoleon tosses Joseph’s letter to Arthur.

‘My brother has been hunting demons well before us! If I had received that letter-‘

‘You’re lucky I got this from him! He’s enjoying hoarding them.’

‘He’s deathly board.’

‘Who? Lowe?’

‘No! Joseph. I can tell.’

Arthur skims the first page. There is a rather long description of the governor of New Jersey then another long description of the state of the former-king-of-Spain’s estate. He flips the page over. Sheep. Next page, ah! Here is the folktale Lowe had mentioned. Although, as he reads, it is clearly much more than that.

‘When is this dated?’ he asks.

‘March.’

‘When Lady Georgiana-‘

Napoleon nods. Exactly, when Lady Georgiana- He plucks it back and skims the contents again before filing it away at his desk. He has not asked about other letters. He has not mentioned his son. Arthur feels a little raw, still.

‘Are you going to stay over?’ The former-emperor asks, settling back down in front of the fire. He leans against Arthur, resting chin on his shoulder. The duke shifts, relaxes into the position. No, he sighs. Liverpool is arriving tomorrow. It would be ah, as Lowe would say, _suspect_.

Napoleon hums, What a nasty suspicious mine you have. Arthur snorts, nudges him, replies that he is not alone in reasonable bouts of paranoia.

‘I will stay for a bit,’ he finally concedes.

‘Oh good.’ Napoleon smiles then settles fully into his apparent intent of using the duke as a pillow, resting good cheek against him and pushing him back into the canapé.

The fire is reassuring. The calm of evening is reassuring. The clear sky Napoleon can just see from the window is reassuring. The easy breathing of the man next to him is reassuring. He hums a song from Henry IV. He stops a moment into it, cannot remember how the rest goes, then decides to repeat the opening again.

‘You’re out of tune and off beat,’ is murmured into his hair.

‘Good thing I’m not a musician.’

‘What you said last night-‘

‘I was angry.’

‘Do you believe what you said?’

To Napoleon Arthur’s voice is distant, contemplative. Neither here nor there on emotions. Perhaps, best described as scholarly. He props himself up and makes a face.

‘No. I don’t actually think you are shit in uniform. That is uniformly reserved for my true to heart view of Sir Hudson Lowe. I do not think you are a paltry purchased officer. I am the last person who can comment on being ill-educated as I conquered most of Europe without the highly prized English classical education. Cannot decline Amore to save my life. I’m not sure that means anything, though.’ He drops the haughty expression he had adopted for the last few lines. Reaching forward he flicks Arthur’s ear. Smiles at him in an approximate of impish. ‘Duroc was good at explaining these things. I believe he once said that what I do in anger is what I am feeling in that precise moment, not what I actually think and certainly not an indicator of how I am going to act.’

‘And the more personal business you expressed opinions on.’

‘Oh well, you know my views on your marriage. I’ve never seen you with your sons so cannot comment on that with firsthand knowledge. Arthur, truly, if it is upsetting you-‘

‘It isn’t.’

‘No.’

Arthur grins. Napoleon glares then returns the grin and goes in for a kiss. Arthur sighs, all right. I suppose Liverpool isn’t going to arrive until noon. Napoleon nods, he says that he is pleased. And truly he is. The fire is warm and his current pillow comfortable. To change such things would benefit no one, surely. They doze until past midnight. Troop down the hall to the emperor-general’s bedroom in their stockings.

In bed Arthur wants to know why it is they are not feeling the magic any more. Is it because the door is closed? Or is it because there is more magic in the world now so little indications of it diminish under the broader weight? _Is_ there more in the world? He asks this aloud. Napoleon mumbles an answer in his shoulder.

‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’

‘I think so, because before I could do this.’ Lifting up a hand he holds it flat so the palm is facing the ceiling. A beat. Then there is the crackle of flames and Arthur can see sparks. The hand snaps closed and they disappear. ‘Lit a fire when you were off gallivanting with Lowe.’

‘Thought you were napping.’

‘I was. Point remains, before we needed something to ignite. Now, not so. I beg you though, wait until morning. I don’t want things to go flying about the room.’

Arthur huffs. The look he receives is one of fondness. He tries to kiss it away. It doesn’t work.

‘Don’t dream of boars,’ he says, rolling over. There is a feeling of deep contemplation behind him before an arm wraps around him for a moment. Normally, this would intolerable. He does not sleep well with physical contact but it is either the sheer exhaustion or sheer nerves of the last few days – regardless, he is asleep before he can think to make a comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I altered the time a little for when Joseph Bonaparte encountered the Jersey Devil. The actual year was 1820. I just moved the event forward to coincide more with the story. Artistic licence? yes/yes?


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trolls.

Follow now a carriage traveling along a road heading north east but more north than east and it is moving fast so as to meet a deadline of arrival at three.

‘My gout is not having this,’ the Lord Chancellor complains. Liverpool shrugs. What can he do? He wonders as Eldon continues to make noises with every jostle. ‘My doctor said that bed rest was the only thing for me. That and taking the waters at Bath but it isn’t really the season.’

‘You hate Bath.’

‘No, _you_ hate Bath. I find it tolerable. Especially when the works do their office and ease the pain.’

‘You didn’t have to come with us.’

‘Mornington said I ought to. Check on his brother he said, make sure the Corsican’s madness isn’t contagious he said, bring this creature of his to check on everything he said.’

Liverpool makes a noise. Eldon assumes it is consent to the situation. A few hours too late to protest, really. The creature in question is looking miserable and hugging a book to his chest. Apparently the man had been with Mornington out in India. Went to Tibet, Richard Wellesley had explained in a letter, knows all sorts of things about fiddly nature bits. Just the man for the job.

What is the job, exactly? Liverpool hasn’t the faintest. The eldest Wellesley sibling clearly knew more than he was letting on in his letters and the middle sibling, the one in question, was also infuriatingly vague. Harriet Arbuthnot as well, which is truly what had caught Liverpool’s attention. If _she_ was vague then it _necessarily_ must be serious. Then there had been the note from Bonaparte who had quoted a long dead John Dee about the existence of magic, included the molar of an apparently dead man named Linden, and had said that the forest was going to be set on fire by Lord Lowe as a last resort. As if any of _that_ had made sense.

The carriage slows, slows then halts. Eldon makes a groan of relief. The creature of Richard Wellesley, whose name is Francis Buchanan-Hamilton, sticks his head out the window. He jerks it back in. Then, without a word, grabs his bag and veritably kicks the door open in his excitement to exit.

‘Odd little fellow, isn’t he?’ Eldon says amiably.

‘Richard always had a queer taste in friends.’

Francis stops by the horses and gasps. There, in the middle of the road, was a foot print. One of a series leading, he guessed, northward. North-west to be exact. In studious silence he climbs up next to the driver and takes out a spyglass. Oh yes, the footprints origin is towards their destination. The excitement in his breast is something he has not felt in years. Not since his first arrival in India. Not since he was a young man discovering Linnean taxonomy for the first time.

Out loud he says in a rather pronounced Scottish accent, ‘Jesus fuck me I can’t believe the bastard was right.’

‘What?’ Liverpool leans out of the carriage door and looks to the botanist.

‘Richard, that is my lord Mornington, said there were rumours of trolls.’

‘Trolls?’

‘Trolls.’

Liverpool nods then retreats back into the carriage. To Lord Eldon, Lord Chancellor of Great Britain and Ireland, he calmly says, ‘Well, we appear to have a case of trolls on our hands.’

‘Oh dear. I hope it isn’t contagious.’

‘I dare say it is.’

‘Shame, that.’

‘Indeed.’

A few minutes later Francis re-enters the carriage and begins to explain the length and breadth of the foot prints and the distance apart. What he does not say is – they had been heading south but then turned north suddenly. They had been heading towards London. That, he thinks, is not something that bodes well.

 

Emperor of France. Correction, Sometime-Emperor-of-France, smiles when Eldon heaves himself into the parlour.

‘I trust you are doing well,’ Napoleon says. He motions to a servant and a small stool with a pillows is provided for Eldon’s leg. ‘That you made the journey is surprising. We had not expected you.’

‘No,’ Eldon grins. ‘I didn’t think you would be.’ Napoleon grins back. Arthur rolls his eyes. Liverpool, sotto voce, ‘It’s the trial all over again only fewer journalists.’

The emperor spins to the prime minister exuding enthusiasm and pleasure.

‘How _are_ the intrepid journalists of London? I haven’t from Monsieur Ezekiel Urquhart recently.’

‘Lord spare me the mention of that man’s name.’ To Arthur Liverpool snips, ‘Urquhart is veritably Bonaparte’s personal relations artist with the public of London.’ To Napoleon. ‘He won (so much as we may call it _winning_ ) that trial for you, you know.’

‘I am forever in his debt.’

The only word Arthur can think of to describe Napoleon is _pleased_. Liverpool heaves a sigh and sits down. Napoleon follows suit and says, ‘well, where shall we begin in our tale?’

‘How about the beginning? Wellesley, you better be paying attention. I want to know if he deviates from the truth at all.’

Arthur nods. He settles down beside Eldon who has been bestowed a whiskey by Bertrand and looks for all the world as content as a man in his condition can be. Going to be a good ride, he asks Arthur. It’s going to be something, Arthur replies. Good man, Eldon says. You’re a real brick, Wellesley.

Napoleon looks between Arthur and Eldon. Mouths, A real brick? Bertrand snorts. Montholon is writing copy in his head. Albine, Fanny and Harriet are holding court on a settee opposite the gentlemen. Eldon, between amusement and horror, ‘he speaks English!’

‘A little,’ Napoleon smiles. Only, he pronounces it as _a leetle_. Then the smile vanishes and he is all seriousness. Deciding to skip the bit in March he begins with the disappearing soldiers. With additions from various and sundry of the gathered witnesses, and a suggested list of others who may be of help, they manage to cover the last month or so of happenings in a relatively short period of time. By the end Napoleon believes he has the measure of Liverpool and can see why it is this man alone who is holding together Arthur’s beloved Tory party. No one so boring could be divisive.

 

Liverpool wants to see the wounded before anything more is discussed. He thinks perhaps they could walk to Abelle Hall, it will give him time to see the village and stretch his legs. Eldon, naturally, refrains from joining it. He grasps Liverpool by the forearms as he is hauled upwards.

‘You can report back, eh?’ Eldon says. ‘I’ll stay here with, oh who is remaining behind? Excellent, I will remain with the bewitching Comtesse de Montholon while the rest of you take your jaunt to see Lord Lowe.’

Liverpool replies with a mere, As you wish. He believes, rather _knows,_ that this is all done as a means for Eldon to avoid seeing the local jailer. After all, Eldon had more or less suggested Lowe in order to get him out of London so he would cease pestering everyone in Horseguards and environs for a position. What could the Crown do? Give the most failed man in the British army a new command? Somewhere where lives might be at risk? Hardly.

 

Woodford is still in a state. Bodies have been moved, most being readied for burial. But the green is now brown and the remains of the fires still give off heat. There are musket balls embedded in buildings and the smell of burnt flesh lingers in clothing, hair, against people’s very skin. The atmosphere, Liverpool finds, is one of incredible sobriety with moments of excitement which, considering it is All Saints, makes for an oddly appropriate scene. The excitement, mad glee breaks forth here, with a shriek of laughter, there with a cheers to the death of the enemies of England. The scale of the battle has become grandiose in the minds of the people. It was not a mere village they defended but the entire kingdom. And by the side of the likes of Wellington! Liverpool hears this underneath every description of the events he has heard thus far. _If it hadn’t been for his grace_ or _He might be French but he did defend us_ or _so he’s a foreign tosser who ain’t got two p to his name but he’s a’ight_ or _I don’t hold with posh folk bein’ considered our be’ters, pardin’ your lordship, but well, it’s Wellington yeah?_ And more colourful besides.

 

 

Francis Buchanan-Hamilton to Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, ‘your brother sends his love.’

‘I’ll bet he does.’

Francis’ expression is immoveable. Arthur relents, I send mine in return. How is Richard?

‘Oh. Well. You know how he is.’

Arthur smiles. To Napoleon he says, To the contrary I never know how Richard is. Napoleon scoffs but Arthur insists. I am not close to my brothers. It is not like you and Joseph and your almost-being-twins in closeness. When my brother went to school I did not weep over him. Any of them, really.

The thought palls the general but he thinks that this is perhaps not the time to dig into that particular nest of scar-tissue.

 

 

They make fair work of the day. Visiting with Lowe, who was a frantic moth beating himself against a window pain of political and military acknowledgement. Seeing to the wounded, there he spoke with this man and that man and heard much the same as what he had heard in the village. Then, with afternoon sun sitting heavy in the sky, Liverpool turns to Arthur, ‘do you think we have time to tour the forest?’

Arthur blinks. His heart speeds up and he commands it to be still. To be calm. To be like Napoleon’s slow pulse at rest. It does not listen. Gallops away.

‘I don’t see why we can’t,’ he replies. ‘We should bring Buchanan along. Perhaps he can explain some of it to us.’

‘Excellent.’ Liverpool nods to Arthur. ‘We shall leave directly, then.’

 

Although it has only been a matter of a day and a half everything has changed. The land is upturned and muddied. There are the remains of root systems jutting up, mad tangles in the air. As soon as they come close to the Shrubbery there sound of animals ceases. All those in attendance feel the need for quiet by an unspoken agreement. In the lead in Arthur who, for something to do, is once again going over the details of the last few weeks with Liverpool. Behind and unreadable is the French party sans Albine. Then, the Arbuthnots and Lowe bringing up the rear. Pardoning the silence, it could have been a group looking for a picnic spot. Provided that they were keen on picnicking in what looked little better than a wasteland.

‘I cannot decide,’ Harriet murmurs to Charles, ‘which is the most cruel, unfeeling month: October or April.’

‘April, my love. Always April.’

She laughs quietly. Leans into his arm and feels suddenly tired.

 

The more they draw near the Shrubbery the more that uncanny feeling of magic returns. Liverpool pauses, presses his hand against his chest and asks if it always is like this. He is informed that usually, yes. There is the weight and the pressure and the ears popping.

‘Not unlike the mountains in Tibet,’ Buchanan says. He had been scribbling notes but as they approached their destination he leaves off. Becomes timid in his assessments. ‘This is more than I had imagined.’

‘Think you can fit it into a monograph for the Royal Society?’ Charles asks.

‘A monograph? Sir a twelve volume series would only begin to do it justice. No one else has been here, yet?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘No other naturalists.’

Charles smiles, No no, my good man, you have the dubious honour of being the first.

Buchanan is ecstatic but expresses it by merely nodding to himself and attending diligently to the dead stumps about them. The torn ground underfoot he hastily sketches, says aloud that they must have someone come in and draw this in detail. Sooner the better. And one these creatures – will we be seeing a specimen?

Napoleon mutters to Arthur, Only if the madman wants to go get one himself.

‘Unfortunately,’ Arthur replies, ‘we burnt most of them. Only way to kill them, you see. Well, that we know of so far. I’d be curious to see how effective canon shot alone would be on them.’

Liverpool with a stoic expression prods a log with his walking stick. He walks up to the edge of the forest and prods a tree. There is no response. He eyes the path in with an uncertain eye.

‘How does the magic manifest?’

Arthur, ‘Friction in the air would be the best thing I can think of.’ He turns to Bonaparte and repeats the question in French. The former-emperor shrugs. Replies that perhaps Arthur could demonstrate. Adds slyly that there are no books to do damage to persons or furniture. ‘I can show you perhaps something, sir. Or, better yet, Bonaparte can.’

Liverpool nods. He would like that. Napoleon scowls at Arthur.

‘I do not perform tricks to strangers.’

‘He’s the Prime Minister of England, monsieur, not a stranger.’

Napoleon gives Arthur a dirty look. A dramatic sigh then he holds his palm out flat, a feeling of air sucking in around his hand then a spark then flames.

Liverpool watches. Blinks. Nods.

‘Fancy,’ he says. A moment later he feels his being ripped from his head and it is Bonaparte’s hands. ‘Clever, too.’

Arthur’s chance to return the dirty look. In French, ‘you never told me you could do that.’

‘There are a great many things I have not told you.’

Liverpool, glancing between them retrieves his hat and places it carefully back upon his head.

‘Of course, others can do different things.’ Arthur explains as they move into the woods. ‘Scrying I have seen performed. Moving between locations via mirrors.’

‘Pardon me, your grace?’

‘Sort of like a doorway. You step through and end up in another place. I have not done it. Well, have not consciously set out to go between places through a mirror and so I do not know the process. Others do.’

‘Bowls of water,’ Harriet adds.

‘Yes, water too.’

They come upon the stream. The tendril that connects back to the river Nene and off to the side is a large, granite bolder. Napoleon follows Arthur’s glance and there is the stone just as it was for them. Knife handle just visible from the path. Arthur wants to stop. His neck feels like fire, like those nails have returned and are digging into him. He wants to run. He hates that he wants to run.

‘This is where we crossed,’ he explains to Liverpool. He begins explaining the events, listing facts of the experience as best he can. He recalls the temperature, the lighting, the flora, the feel of the ground underfoot. Dimly, he is aware that Buchanan is scribbling away and Liverpool’s expression has become one of firm resolve. When he stops for lack of anything else to say he keeps his hands behind his back, fingers laced. Liverpool eyes the rock, the river, the path, the trees. The magic has clearly become denser. Liverpool coughs.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Fine. Good. Well, I think I’ve seen enough. Shall we? And tell me, what was noted about these trolls heading north?’

At this question it is Bertrand who takes over the conversation. Arthur moves to the Arbuthnots and Harriet switches from her husband’s arm to his. She laughs, I have never seen you in such a state. She notes his face. She looks away. Foul creatures, she murmurs. What else is there to say?

 

 

It is decided by Liverpool and Eldon that this must be investigated further. A firm eye must be kept on the matter as clearly it is a cause for concern.

‘We cannot have fantastical creatures running about without the government’s knowledge.’ Liverpool is in conference with Arthur and Eldon. ‘It is unsanitary.’

Arthur blinks. Of all the things he had thought of to describe the situation _unsanitary_ was not one of them.

‘What are you proposing, sir?’ He asks.

‘A new cabinet position is my thought. The minister of…magical affairs? Occult Activities? Damn fool magic causing havoc? I will firm up the formal title later. Point is, the minister will head a committee for the study of the new phenomena and will keep myself and the king informed about the developments. This is all very on-the-fly right now. A very make-it-work-as-you-go position. What say you to the position, Wellington?’

‘Pardon?’

‘What say you man?’

‘But I am being confirmed as Master of the Ordinance.’

‘Yes but you have been here since the beginning. Have first-hand experience with everything and you can do some magic tricks yourself if our queer French friend is to be believed.’

‘What did he tell you?’

‘Oh nothing much. Very sly. Very coy. That one. My main point of appointing you to this is that eventually I have no doubt that occult activities will be subsumed by military ones. What is the point of having massive trolls if we cannot make use of them?’

This is a point that Arthur cannot but agree with and so he bows and says that he is honoured. Only, can he perhaps pick his own scientists to work with? Liverpool snorts, If you’d like. Not keen to be spied upon by your brother?

‘Oh no, only I know Buchanan. He will get side tracked easily and his love of recording all details to the utmost is both a boon and a curse. But this is all for later.’

‘Good, good. I leave it all in your hands. Just keep Bonaparte from meddling too much.’ Liverpool snorts at Arthur’s expression. ‘As much as you can.’

Cautious, ‘He _has_ been of use in the recent events.’

‘I’m sure he has. But if a person can travel through mirrors to new places what is stopping him from returning to France? This puts everything in a new light.’

The thought had not occurred to Arthur and so he bows again and says that he will do what he can. Although when the French government finally makes his exile permanent, as they are rumoured to be considering, surely that will help? Liverpool shrugs. Can’t tell with old Boney and I wouldn’t trust him as far as Kettering.

 

 

It is the next day when Arthur manages to detach himself from Liverpool and Eldon. He goes in search of the French, particularly one Frenchman, and finds him by his bees.

‘They’ve settled back down,’ Napoleon chimes rather enthusiastically. ‘This is excellent news, of course. Very magic sensitive, bees.’

Arthur watches from a safe distance. ‘I am pleased to hear it.’

‘You don’t look pleased.’

‘I have news.’

‘Ah. One minute.’

The basket is carefully placed back over the hive and Napoleon moves away gently pushing bees off the robes and hat. They go through the gate towards the river and make a slow walk along it.

‘Liverpool has decided to create a new cabinet position.’

‘I am unsurprised.’

‘Minister of Magic or something or other.’

‘Sounds like something out of a novel-‘

‘Don’t get me started.’

Napoleon grins. ‘I assume you are the one filling this new, estimable position? I am right. As usual. That is an unattractive expression, Arthur, do stop.’ Taking Arthur’s arm Napoleon tugs him away from the river edge to a collection of trees and pulls him to the ground. ‘Now, tell me why this is worthy of concern?’

‘Liverpool believes that you will escape to France.’

‘Does he have nothing else to occupy his time? Being Prime Minister must be a very relaxing position.’ A sigh. ‘Fine, fine I will be serious.’

‘I wish you would.’

‘Well you’re in a foul mood. Why does he think I will escape? It’s been a few years.’

Arthur fiddles with a leaf. He looks over to Napoleon who is watching him with a patient expression. When the duke takes longer than expected the emperor suggests perhaps that the Prime Minister is concerned about mirrors. Arthur nods. Yes, mirrors. And maybe bowls of water. And rivers. Not counting the usual methods of escape.

Napoleon flops back onto dry earth and admires the leaf-less trees. The autumnal, now November sky.

‘I think-‘ He stops. Shakes his head. Picks up a twig and tosses it towards Arthur. In English he says, ‘there is a twig on your hair.’

‘Do I have your word as a gentleman that you will not escape?’

‘I didn’t know you thought me a gentleman! What a brave new world we live in.’

‘Be serious.’

A sigh. ‘You have my word.’ Napoleon does not like the expression on Arthur’s face. It is too melancholic and so he leans up, kisses him on the cheek. ‘Besides, you will need my help here. I was the one who did most of the work recently, anyway.’

‘What a fascinating world it must be in your head.’

‘Fie Arthur. I am serious. You will need my help. Trolls! Murderous fairies! Who knows what else? This is more exciting than a campaign.’ He thinks on this. ‘No, perhaps not. But it’s a close second. Besides, the Bertrands and Montholons and their children are settled in and if I escape to France I will miss Layton’s wedding (if the boy ever decides to propose) and that would be a shame. I want to embarrass him with a silly speech and make jokes at his expense.’

Arthur lowers himself down so he is lying next to the other man. He wants to say something about there not being a need to posture but cannot find the right words. There is a second kiss on his cheek and he knows that if he looks there will be grey eyes and a far-too knowing smile, perhaps a half smile since the bandaging makes full smiles difficult at the moment. Fingers curl into his. He is tugged back up.

‘Come on,’ Napoleon continues tugging him until he is standing. ‘It’s a beautiful day, for once, and we had best spend it well before you run off back to London.’

Arthur laughs, ‘say it in English.’

A look of horror. ‘No! We are not playing that game!’

‘Come now, monsieur, say it in English.’

Napoleon tries and Arthur is feeling kind so does not say how abysmal the attempt was.

‘It will do,’ he laughs. ‘It will do.’

 

 


End file.
